
Class 7S 64? 



Book. 



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GopyiiglitE 



COFXRIGHT DEPOSm 



Anthology of 
Massachusetts Poets 



Anthology of 
Massachusetts Poets 



BY 

WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 






Copyright, 1922, 
By small, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(mCOEPOEATED) 



0)CI.A6Gl^ai6 



Printed in U. 8. A. 



APR-8'22 



.'V*^ f 



TO 

W. V. J. 

'Fresh from the uplands of Eternity." 
With new songs. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The editor desires to thank the following authors, pub- 
Kshers and magazines, for the permissions courteously 
given to include the poems printed in this volume: 

The Macmillan Company: ^^Candlemas," "Simrise on 
Mansfield Mountain" from ^'The Road to Castalay," 
by AHce Brown; ''The Moods," "HiU Fantasy" from 
"The Crack of Dawn" by Fannie Steams Davis (Mrs. 
A. M. Gifford). 

Houghton Mifflin Company: "The Cross-Current" from 
"The Heart of New England" by Abbie Farwell 
Brown; "Hymns and Anthems Simg at Wellesley 
College" from "The Yosemite and Other Poems" by 
CaroHne Hazard; "Frimaire," "A Bather" from "Pic- 
tures of the Floating World," and "Patterns" from 
"Men, Women and Ghosts" by Amy Lowell; "The 
Prophet" from "The Singing Man," and "Harvest 
Moon: 1914," from "Harvest Moon," by Josephine 
Preston Peabody; "Nocturne" and "Envoi" from 
"Poems New and Old" by William Roscoe Thayer. 

Charles Scribner's Sons: "Essex," "The Song of the 
Wave" and "Song: But of One Heart the Birds and 
I Together" from "Poems" by George Cabot Lodge. 

Henry Holt and Company: "Cretonne Tropics" from 
"Wilderness Songs" by Grace Hazard Conkling. 

G. P. Putnam's Sons: "In the Trolley Car" from "At 
Vesper Time" by Ruth Baldwin Chenery; "There 
Where the Sea," "Marriage" from "The Potter's 
Clay" by Marie Tudor. 

George H. Doran and Company: "The Lilac" from 
"Echoes and ReaHties" by Walter Prichard Eaton. 



E. P. Button and Company: "Burnt are the Petals of 
Life" from ''Arizona and Other Poems" by EHse 
Pumpelley Cabot. 

Little, Brown and Company: "St. Brigid" from "Songs 
of Sunrise" by Dennis A. McCarthy. 

Frederick A. Stokes Company: "Velvets by a Bed of 
Pansies," "Dandelions" and "Red Rooster" from 
"Poems by a Little Girl" by Hilda Conkling. 

Longmans, Green Company: "The Storm," "Where They 
Sleep" and "Beauty" from "Trackless Regions" by 
G. O. Warren. 

Harcourt, Brace and Company: "Comrades" and "The 
FHght" from "The Flight and Other Poems" by 
George Edward Woodberry. 

Yale University Press: "The Riot," "Hunger," "Exit 
Cjod," "Rousseau" from "Shadow Verses" by Gama- 
liel Bradford. 

Small, Maynard and Company : "Magic," "Michael Pat" 
and "Song: Ebb on with Me across the Simset Tide" 
from "White Foimtain : Odes and Lyrics" by Edward 
J, O'Brien; "Two Moods from the Hill" and "A Ban- 
quet: One Memory from Socrates" from "To-mor- 
row's Yesterday" by Ernest Benshimol. 

John Lane Company: "In Memoriam: Francis Led- 
widge" and "Evensong" from "Songs of the Celtic 
Poet" by Norreys Jephson O' Conor. 

Dufl5eld and Company: "The Worlds" from "The Cathe- 
dral and Other Poems" by Martha G. D. Bianchi. 

T. Y. Crowell Company: "With Wave and Wings" from 
"Lips of Music" by Charlotte Porter; "America the 
Beautiful" and "Yellow Clover" from "America the 
Beautiful and Other Poems" by Katharine Lee Bates. 



The Comhill Company: "Blueberries" from "Carling- 
town" by Frank Prentice Rand; "L'Envoi'' and "To 
Imagination" from "An Acerage of Lyric" by Doro- 
thea Lawrance Mann. 

The Four Seas Company: "Dragon" and "Green Golden 
Door" from "Willow Pollen" by Jeannette Marks. 

Forbes and Company: "A Rose to the Living" from "A 
Book of Verses" by Nixon Waterman. 

Benziger Brothers: "The Road Beyond the Town" from 
"The Road Beyond the Town" by Michael Earis, S.J. 

The Stratford Company: "The Voice in the Song" from 
"Lights and Shadows' by Mary Gertrude Hamilton; 
"John Masefield" from "Song-Flame" by Amy Bridg- 
man. 

Richard G. Badger: "An Old Song" and " Roadside Rest " 
from "Profiles" by Arthur Ketchum; "Saint Columb- 
kille" from "Love and Law" by E. J. V. Huiginn. 

To The Atlantic Monthly for "Homebound" by Joseph 
Auslander; Contemporary Verse for "To Hilda of Her 
Roses" by Grace Hazard Conkling; "Memphis" by 
Gordon Malherbe Hillman; "War Pictures" by Ruth 
Lambert Jones; "The Divine Forest" by Charles R. 
Murphy; Harper^ s Magazine for "Three Quatrains" 
by Lilla Cabot Perry; Poetry, A Magazine of Verse for 
"Wreaths" by Carolyn HiUman; "Old Lizette on 
Sleep" by Agnes Lee; "Reuben Boy" by Harold Craw- 
ford Steams. 

To Sylvester Baxter for "The Returning"; to Dean 
Briggs of Harvard College for "1620-1920"; to Jessica 
Carr for "Four Fountains After Respighia"; to Martha 
Haskell Clark for "In the Irish Rain"; to Nathan 
Haskell Dole for "The Mirage"; to Charies Gibson 



for "The Sonnet'' from "The Wounded Eros"; to 
Maude Gordon-Roby for "To Music*'; to Marie 
Louise Hersey for "The Country Road"; to Winifred 
Virginia Jackson for "Miss Doane," "Fallen Fences," 
"Cross-Currents" and "The Farewell"; to Oliver 
Jenkins for "Song: Let Me be Great as Others are 
Great" and "Love Autumnal"; to Agnes Lee for 
"Motherhood" from "The Border of the Lake"; to 
John Clair Minot for "Sleepy Hollow, Concord" and 
"The Sword of Arthur"; to Lilla Cabot Perry for 
"Horseman Springing from the Dark: A Dream" 
from "Impression"; to Margaret Perry for "A Valen- 
tine, Unsent" from "Something Singing"; to Arthur 
Stanwood Pier for "Shipbuilders"; to LoueUa Poole 
for "Unfading Pictures"; and to Harold Vinal for 
"Pity," 



CONTENTS 



HOME BOUND 

JOSEPH AUSLANDER 


PAGE 
3 


AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL 
KATHERINE LEE BATES 


4 


YELLOW CLOVER 

KATHERINE LEE BATES 


6 


THE RETURNING 

SYLVESTER BAXTER 


9 


TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL 
ERNEST BENSHIMOL 


II 


A BANQUET 

ERNEST BENSHIMOL 


13 


SONG 

GEORGE CABOT LODGE 


14 


THE WORLDS 

MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI 


15 


THE RIOT 

GAMALIEL BRADFORD 

HUNGER 

GAMALIEL BRADFORD 


17 

i8 


EXIT GOD 

GAMALIEL BRADFORD 


19 


ROUSSEAU 

GAMALIEL BRADFORD 


20 


JOHN MASEFIELD 


21 



AMY BRIDGMAN 



1620-1920 24 

LE BARON RUSSEL BRIGGS 
THE CROSS-CURRENT 28 

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN 

CANDLEMAS 3I 

ALICE BROWN 

SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN 32 

ALICE BROWN 

BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE 35 

ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT 

FOUR FOUNTAINS. AFTER RESPIGHI 36 

JESSICA CARR 

IN THE TROLLEY CAR 37 

RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY 

IN IRISH RAIN 38 

MARTHA HASKELL CLARK 

CRETONNE TROPICS 4O 

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING 

TO HILDA OF HER ROSES 4I 

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING 

DANDELION 42 

HILDA CONKLING 

RED ROOSTER 43 

HILDA CONKLING 

VEVETS 44 

HILDA CONKLING 

THE MOODS. 45 

FANNY STEARNS DAVIS 

HILL-FANTASY 46 

FANNY STEARNS DAVIS 

THE MIRAGE 5© 

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE 



THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN 51 

MICHAEL EARLS, S. J. 

THE LILAC S3 

WALTER PRICHARD EATON 

GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE 54 
CHARLES GIBSON 

TO MUSIC 55 

MAUDE GORDON-ROBY 
THE VOICE IN THE SONG $6 

MARV GERTRUDE HAMILTON 

HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT WELLESLEY COLLEGE S7 

CAROLINE HAZARD 
REUBEN ROY 62 

HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS 
COUNTRY ROAD 64 

MARIE LOUISE HERSEY 
WREATHS 65 

CAROLYN HILLMAN 

MEMPHIS 66 

GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN 

SAINT COLUMBKILLE 6y 

E. J. V. HUIGINN 

MISS DOANE 69 

WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON 

FALLEN FENCES 7I 

WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON 

CROSS-CURRENTS 75 

WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON 

THE FAREWELL 76 

WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON 

SONG y'; 

OLIVER JENKINS 



LOVE AUTUMNAL 78 

OLIVER JENKINS 
ECHOES 79 

RUTH LAMBERT JONES 
WAR PICTURES 80 

RUTH LAMBERT JONES 
AN OLD SONG 81 

ARTHUR KETCHUM 
ROADSIDE REST 82 

ARTHUR KETCHUM 
OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP 83 

AGNES LEE 

MOTHERHOOD 85 

AGNES LEE 
ESSEX 87 

GEORGE CABOT LODGE 
THE SONG OF THE WAVE 89 

GEORGE CABOT LODGE 
FRIMAIRE 92 

AMY LOWELL 

PATTERNS 93 

AMY LOWELL 

A BATHER 97 

amy lowell 
leprechauns and cluricauns 99 

dennis a. mccarthy 

l'envoi ioi 

dorothea lawrence mann 

to imagination 102 

dorothea lawrence mann 

DRAGON 104 

JEANETTE MARKS 



GREEN GOLDEN DOOR IO5 

JEANETTE MARKS 

SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD I06 

JOHN CLAIR MINOT 
THE SWORD OF ARTHUR IO7 

JOHN CLAIR MINOT 
THE DIVINE FOREST lOg 

CHARLES R. MURPHY 
MAGIC III 

EDWARD J. 0*BRIEN 
MICHAEL PAT II4 

EDWARD J. O'BRIEN 

SONG 115 

EDWARD J. o'bRIEN 

IN MEMORIAM : FRANCIS LEDWIDGE II6 

NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR 

EVENSONG 117 

NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR 

THE PROPHET II8 

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY 

HARVEST-MOON : I914 121 

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PE^ABODY 

HORSEMEN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK : A DREAM I23 
LILLA CABOT PERRY 

THREE QUATRAINS I24 

LILLA CABOT PERRY 

A VALENTINE UNSENT 125 

MARGARET PERRY 

SHIPBUILDERS 126 

ARTHUR STAN WOOD PIER 

UNFADING PICTURES I28 

LOUELLA C. POOLE 



WITH WAVES AND WINGS I30 

CHARLOTTE PORTER 

BLUEBERRIES I3I 

FRANK PRENTICE RAND 

NOCTURNE 132 

WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER 
ENVOI 133 

WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER 

THERE WHERE THE SEA 134 

MARIE TUDOR 
MARRIAGE I36 

MARIE TUDOR 
PITY 137 

HAROLD VINAL 

A ROSE TO THE LIVING I38 

NIXON WATERMAN 
THE STORM I39 

G. 0. WARREN 

WHERE THEY SLEEP I4O 

G. O. WARREN 

BEAUTY 141 

G. 0. WARREN 
COMRADES 142 

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY 

THE FLIGHT 144 

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY 



Anthology of 
Massachusetts Poets 



HOME-BOUND 

THE moon is a wavering rim where one fish 
slips, 
The water makes a quietness of sound; 
Night is an anchoring of many ships 
Home-bound. 

There are strange tunnelers in the dark, and whirs 

Of wings that die, and hairy spiders spin 
The silence into nets, and tenanters 
Move softly in. 

I step on shadows riding through the grass. 
And feel the night lean cool against my face; 
And challenged by ihe sentinel of space, 
I pass. 

Joseph Auslander 



AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL 

O BEAUTIFUL for spacious skies, 
For amber waves of grain, 
For purple mountain majesties 
Above the fruited plain! 

America ! America ! 
God shed His grace on thee 
And crown thy good with brotherhood 
From sea to shining sea! 



Vi 



O beautiful for pilgrim feet, 

/Those stern, impassioned stress 
A thoroughfare for freedom beat 

Across the wilderness ! 
America 1 America ! 

God mend thine every flaw. 
Confirm thy soul in self-control, 

Thy liberty in law! 

O beautiful for heroes proved 

In liberating strife. 
Who more than self their country loved, 

And mercy more than life! 
America ! America ! 

May God thy gold refine. 
Till all success be nobleness, 

And every gain divine. 

O beautiful for patriot dream 
That sees beyond the years 
Thine alabaster cities gleam 
4 



Undimmed by human tears! America 

America ! America ! Beautiful 

God shed His grace on thee 
And crown thy good with brotherhood 
From sea to shining sea ! 

Katherine Lee Bates 



YELLOW CLOVER 

MUST I, who walk alone, 
come on it still, 
This Puck of plants 
The wise would do away with, 
The sunshine slants 
To play with, 

Our wee, gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover. 
Which once in parting for a time 
That then seemed long. 
Ere time for you was over, 
We sealed our own? 
Do you remember yet, 
O Soul beyond the stars, 
Beyond the uttermost dim bars 
Of space, 

Dear Soul, who found earth sweet, 
Remember by love's grace, 
In dreamy hushes of the heavenly song, 
How suddenly we halted in our climb, 
Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill. 
Stooped for the blossoms closest to our feet. 
And gave them as a token 
Each to Each, 
In lieu of speech, 

In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken, 
Those little, gypsy, wondering blossoms wet 
With a strange dew of tears? 

So it began, 

This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover. 
To be our tenderest language. All the years 
It lent a new zest to the summer hours, 

6 



As each of us went scheming to surprise ^f^^Z 

The other with our homely, laureate flowers. uover 

Sonnets and odes 

Fringing our daily roads. 

Can amaranth and asphodel 

Bring merrier laughter to your eyes? 

Oh, if the Blest, in their serene abodes, 

Keep any wistful consciousness of earth, 

Not grandeurs, but the childish ways of love, 

Simplicities of mirth, 

Must follow them above 

With touches of vague homesickness that pass 

Like shadows of swift birds across the grass. 

Beneath some foreign arch of sky, 

How many a time the rover 

You or I, 

For life oft sundered look from look, 

And voice from voice, the transient dearth 

Schooling my soul to brook 

This distance that no messages may span, 

Would chance 

Upon our wilding by a lonely well, 

Or drowsy watermill. 

Or swaying to the chime of convent bell, 

Or where the nightingales of old romance 

With tragical contraltos fill 

Dim solitudes of infinite desire; 

And once I joyed to meet 

Our peasant gadabout 

A trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat, 

Twinkling a saucy eye 

As potentates paced by. 

Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flame 
From friendship's altar fire! 
How proudly we would pluck and tame 

7 



Yellow The dimpling clusters, mutinously gay! 
Clover How swiftly they were sent 

Far, far away 

On journeys wide, 

By sea and continent. 

Green miles and blue leagues over, 

From each of us to each. 

That so our hearts mi^ht reach, 

And touch within the yellow clover, 

Love's letter to be glad about 

Like sunshine when it came! 

My sorrow asks no healing; it is love; 

Let love then make me brave 

To bear the keen hurts of 

This careless summertide. 

Ay, of our own poor flower, 

Changed with our fatal hour. 

For all its sunshine vanished when you died; 

Only white clover blossoms on your grave. 

Katherine Lee Bates 



8 



THE RETURNING 

WE long for her, we yearn for her — 
Yes, ardently we yearn 
For her return. 

Recalling those beloved days 

(Days intimate with ways 

Of friends so near to us 

And life so dear to us). 

We yearn unspeakably for her return. 

And come she must. . . . Yet while we trust 

We soon may see the passing of this agony 

Which makes intrusive years still seem 

A fearsome dream, 

We know that when she comes 

She really comes not back again. 

Shell come in other guise 
And under fairer skies — 
And yet to bitter pain! 

That day she went away 

Our homes with laughing youth were filled. 

Where then was happiness 

Is now distress. 

The laughter stilled; 

For when she left 

Youth followed her — 

We stay bereft. 

9 



J^f So all our golden joy 

Returnvng p^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^.^^^ 

Must carry gray alloy: 

The sorrow that she can not lay, 

The mysery that she can not stay — 

While all the gladsome songs she sings 

Must bear for undertones 

Old sighs and echoed moans. 

As they who go away 

In flush of youth 

May come quite worn and gray 

And bringing naught but ruth — 

So, when the strife shall cease, 

And when she comes at last, 

When all the armies vast 

Shall at her feet 

Kneel down to greet 

Thrice welcome Peace, 

This world will be so changed 

(So many dear ones dead, 

So many friends estranged, 

So many blessings fled. 

So many wonted ways forever barred, 

So many coming days forever marred) 

That then 

She truly comes not back again — 

She, the Peace we knew. 

Yet how we long for her! 
How ardently we yearn 
For her return! 

Sylvester Baxter 

10 



TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL 



YOUTH 

1L0VE to watch the world from here, for all 
The numberless living portraits that are drawn 
Upon the mind. Far over is the sea, 
Fronting the sand, a few great yellow dunes, 
A salt marsh stumbling after, rank and green^ 
With brackish gullies wandering in between;^ 
All this from the hill. 

And more: a clump of dwarfed and twisted cedars, 
Sentinels over the marsh, and bright with the sun 
A field of daises wandering in the wind 
As though a hidden serpent glided through, 
A broken wall, a new-plowed field, and then 
The dusty road and the abodes of men 
Surrounding the hill. 

How small the enclosure is wherein ther^ lives 
Each phase and passion of life, the distant sail 
Dips in the limpid bosom of the sea, 
From that far place to where in state the turf 
Raises a throne for me upon the hill, 
Each little love and lust of a living thing 
Can thus be compassed in a rainbow ring 
And seen from the hill. 

II 

AGE 

Why did I build my cottage on a hill 
Facing the sea? 

II 



^o Why did I plan each terraced lawn to slope 

From Down to the deep blue billowy breast of hope, 

The Surging and sweeping, 

^iil Laughing and leaping, 

Tumbling its garments of foam upon the shore, 
Rustling the sands that know my step no more, 
I should have found a valley, deep and still, 
To shelter me. 

There flows the river, and it seems asleep 

So far away, 

Yet I remember whip of wave and roar 

Of wind that rose and smote against the oar. 

Smote and retreated, 

Proud but defeated, 

While I rejoiced and rowed into the brine, 

Drawing on wet and heavy-straining line 

The great cod quivering from the deep 

As counterplay. 

What is the solace of these hills and vales 

That rise and fall? 

What is there glorious in the greenwood glen. 

Or twittering thrush or wing of darting wren? 

Give me the gusty. 

Raucous and rusty 

Call of the sea gull in the echoing sky, 

The wild shriek of the winds that cannot die. 

Give me the life that follows the bending sails, 

Or none at all! 

Ernest Benshimol 



12 



A BANQUET 

ONE MEMORY FROM SOCRATES . 

AFTER the song the love, and after the love the 
play, 
Flute girl and pretty boy blowing 
Bubbles of sparkling 
Wine into darkling 
Beards of a former austerity, stern even now, but 

fast growing 
Foolish, with less of the stately 
Reserve that held them sedately. 
Oh Zeus, what a sight ! with the wine dripping off it, 
The grin of an ass on a bald-pated prophet. 

After the feast the night, and after the night the day. 

Fool and philosopher stirring 

With the day dawning, 

Stretching and yawning, 

While in each wine-throbbing, desolate brain is the 

wheeling and whirring 
Of thousands of bats, that the slaking 
Of throats will not hinder from aching, 
No wine for the brow that is beating to bursting. 
But water at morning is quench for the thirsting! 

Ernest Benshimol 



13 



SONG 

OUT of one heart the birds and I together^ 
Earth hushed in twilight, 
Low through the live-oaks hung heavy with silver. 

Gemmed with the sky-light, 
Under the great wet star 
Shaking with light, we jar 
Lute-voiced the silence with intervaled music. 

While under the margined world the slow sun 
lingers, 

Flaming earth's portal. 
Over the lilac dusk spreads his great fingers — 

Earth is immortal ! 
While the frail beauty dies. 
Dream in the dreamer's eyes, 
All the good gladness turns praise for the singers. 

Hark, 'tis the breath of life! Hush! and I need it; 

Northern, gigantic, — 
Questing the silences, herding the sudden foam 

Down the Atlantic; 
Leaves from the autumn's store 
Shrill at my desert door. 
They and I out of one heart that is grieving. 

George Cabot Lodge 



14 



THE WORLDS 

I SAW an idler on a summer day 
Piping with Iris by a dancing brook; 
And all his world was rife with Pleasures gay, 
And languid Follies smiled from every nook. 

I saw an artist in a world of dreams, 
His rainbow rising from his radiant task, 

To throw its magic prism beams 

O'er Fancy's changeful masque and counter- 
masque. 

I saw Toil — stooping underneath a world 
Whereon his foster-brothers lighter tread, 

His skyward pinions ever closer furled 
Before the grim necessity of bread ! 

I saw a sinner working hard to be 

Worthy his death-wage from the mint of time ; 
I saw a sailor, unto whom the sea 

Was hearth and hope and love and wedding- 
chime. 

I saw a mother living in her child — 

I saw a saint among his fellow men — 
Brave soldiery before my eyes defiled 
And solemn-hearted scholars — Sudden then 

I cried: "The stars are no less neighborly 
In their ethereal remoteness swung, 
Than these near human orbits wherein we 
Live out our lives and speak our chosen tongue ! 

15 



^^ "Love seek through all — less there be one 

i^orias L^^g^ g^^l ^^Ij^ within the night— 

And over all, the selfsame sun 
Give each creation light !" 

Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi 



i6 



THE RIOT 



YOU think my life is quiet 
I find it full of change, 
An ever-varied diet, 

As piquant as 'tis strange. 

Wild thoughts are always flying, 
Like sparks across my brain, 

Now flashing out, now dying. 
To kindle soon again. 

Fine fancies set me thrilling. 
And subtle monsters creep 
Before my sight unwilling : 
They even haunt my sleep. 

One broad, perpetual riot 

Enfolds me night and day. 
You think my life is quiet? 

You don't know what you say. 

Gamaliel Bradford 



17 



HUNGER 

I'VE been a hopeless sinner, but I understand a 
saint. 
Their bend of weary knees and their con- 
tortions long and faint, 
And the endless pricks of conscience, like a hundred 

thousand pins, 
A real perpetual penance for imaginary sirjs. 

I love to wander widely, but I understand a cell. 
Where you tell and tell your beads because youVe 

nothing else to tell. 
Where the crimson joy of flesh, with all its wild 

fantastic tricks. 
Is forgotten in the blinding glory of the crucifix. 

I cannot speak for others, but my inmost soul is 

torn 
With a battle of desires making all my life forlorn. 
There are moments when I would untread the paths 

that I have trod. 
Vm a haunter of the devil, but I hunger after God- 

Gamaliel Bradford 



i8 



EXIT GOD 

OF old our father's God was real, 
Something they almost saw, 
Which kept them to a stern ideal 
And scourged them into awe. 

They walked the narrow path of right 

Most vigilantly well, 
Because they feared eternal night 

And boiling depths of Hell. 

Now Hell has wholly boiled away 

And God become a shade. 
There is no place for him to stay 

In all the world He made. 

The followers of William James 

Still let the Lord exist. 
And call Him by imposing names, 

A venerable list. 

But nerve and muscle only count. 

Gray matter of the brain, 
And an astonishing amount 

Of inconvenient pain. 

I sometirnes wish that God were back 
In this dark world and wide; 

For though some virtues He might lack, 
He had his pleasant side. 

Gamaliel Bradford 
19 



ROUSSEAU 



^KAT odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau, 

Declared himself unique. 
How men persist in doing so, 

Puzzles me more than Greek. 

The sins that tarnish whore and thief 

Beset me every day. 
My most ethereal belief 

Inhabits common clay. 

Gamaliel Bradford 



20 



JOHN MASEFIELD 

I 

MASEFIELD ( HIMSELF) 

GOD said, and frowned, as He looked on 
Shropshire clay : 
"Alone, 'twont do; composite, would I make 
This man-child rare ; 'twere well, methinks, to take 
A handful from the Stratford tomb, and weigh 
A few of Shelley's ashes; Bunyan may 
Contribute, too, and, for my sweet Son'§ sake, 
I'll visit Avalon; then, let me slake 
The whole with Wyclif-water from the B^y. 

A sailor, he! Too godly, though, I fear; 
Offset it with tobacco! Next, I'll find 
Hedge-roses, star-dust, and a vagrant's mind ; 
His mother's heart now let me breathe upon ; 
When west winds blow, I'll whisper in her ear: 
''Apocalypse awaits him; call him John!*' 

II 

HIS PORTRAIT 

A Man of Sorrows ! with such haunted eyes, 
I trow, the Master looked across the lake, — 
Looked from the Judas-heart, so soon to make 
Of Him the world's historic sacrifice; 
Moreover, as I gaze, do more arise; 
Great souls, great pallid ghosts of pain, who wake 
And wander yet; all, weary men who brake 

21 



i^^*^ r ,. Their hearts; all hemlock-drunk, with growing 
Masefield ^jg^ . 

Hudson adrift; Defoe; the Wandering Jew; 
Tannhauser; Faust; Andrea; phantoms, all, 
In Masefield's eyes you lodge; and to the wall 
I turn you, — hand a-tremble, — lest you make 
Of mine own stricken eyes a mirror, too. 
Wherein the sad world's sadder for your sake. 

Ill 



O Masefield's "Dauber!" You, who being dead, 
Yet speak: heroic, dauntless, flaming soul, 
Too suddenly snuffed out! Here take fresh toll 
Of cognizance, and, in your ocean bed, 
Serenely rest, assured that who has read 
What you would fain have pictured of the Pole 
Would gladly match your part against the whole 
Of many a modern artist, Paris-bred. 

And more than this: if you, indeed, are his. 
Then, by a dual truth, he, too, is yours; 
For, marked and credited by what endures, 
Were it the only thing which bears his name, 
(O deathless Soul, I speak you true in this!) 
*The Dauber" has brought Masefield to his fame. 

IV 

HIS ''gallipoli" 

"Small wonder," speaks my pensive self, "that he 
Whose passion 'tis to sing of men who fail, — 
CBelabored, broken by The Unseen Flail) 
Small wonder that he makes Gallipoli 

22 



His fervent text, for conld there be Masefield 

A costlier failure in Earth's shuddering tale? 

Think of heroic Sulva's bloody swale ; 

Of Anzac's tortured thirst and agony!" 

But as I read, protesting voices cry : ''Not we. 

Not we, who fell among the daffodils. 

Who conquered Death among those blistered hills, 

And found our glory after mortal pain; 

Not we, who failed and lost Gallipoli; 

The sad, strange failure theirs who mourn in vain!'' 



HIS MEAD 

So, Masefield, have your royal words once more 
Called forth the praise of men, where praise is 

due ; 
Your great elegiac, tragically true, 
Must leave all Britain prouder than before ; 
And, in spite of all that breaking hearts deplore, 
And all that anguished consciences must rue, 
One arrowed gladness surely pierces through 
From London's centre to Canadian shore : 

Wlien England, sobbing, mourns Gallipoli, 
When warm tears flow for Rupert Brooke 
And all the splendid Youth her error took 
As hostage from the fields of daffodils. 
Let this a present, living solace be : 
You are not sleeping in those cruel hills ! 

Amy Bridgeman 



23 



I620-I920 

BEFORE him rolls the dark, relentless ocean; 
Behind him stretch the cold and barren sands; 
Wrapt in the mantle of his deep devotion 
The Pilgrim kneels, and clasps his lifted hands : 

"God of our fathers, who hast safely brought us 
Through seas and sorrows, famine, fire, and 

sword ; 
Who, in Thy mercies manifold hast taught us 
To trust in Thee, our leader and our Lord; 

"God, who hast sent Thy truth to shine before us, 
A fiery pillar, beaconing on the sea; 
God, who hast spread Thy wings of mercy o'er us; 
God, who hast set our children's children free, 

"Freedom Thy new-born nation here shall cherish; 
Grant us Thy covenant, unchanging, sure: 
Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish; 
Freedom and Truths immortal shall endure." 



Face to the Indian arrows, 

Face to the Prussian guns, 

From then till now the Pilgrim's vow 

Has held the Pilgrim's sons. 

He braved the red man's ambush. 
He loosed the black man's chain; 
His spirit broke King George's yoke 
And the battleships of Spain. 

24 



He crossed the seething ocean; 1620-1920 

He dared the death-strewn track; 

He charged in the hell of Saint Mihiel 

And hurled the tyrant back. 

For the voice of the lonely Pilgrim 
Who knelt upon the strand 
A people hears three hundred years 
In the conscience of the land. 



Daughter of Truth and mother of Courage, 

Conscience, all hail ! 

Heart of New England, strength of the Pilgrims, 

Thou shalt prevail. 

Look how the empires rise and fall ! 

Athens robed in her learning and beauty, 

Rome in her royal lust of power — 

Each has flourished for her little hour, 

Risen and fallen and ceased to be. 

What of her by the Western Sea, 

Born and bred as the child of Duty, 

Sternest of them all? 

She it is and she alone 

Who built on faith as her corner stone; 

Of all the nations none but she 

Knew that the truth shall make us free. 

Daughter of Courage, mother of heroes, 

Freedom divine, 

Light of New England, Star of the Pilgrim, 

Still shalt thou shine. 



25 



1620-1920 Yet even as we in our pride rejoice, 

Hark to the prophet's warning voice: 

"The Pilgrim's thrift is vanished 

And the Pilgrim's faith is dead, 

And the Pilgrim's God is banished, 

And Mammon reigns in his stead; 

And work is damned as an evil. 

And m^en and women cry. 

In their restless haste, *Let us spend and waste, 

And live; for to-morrow we die.' 

"And law is trampled under; 

And the nations stand aghast, 

As they hear the distant thunder 

Of the storm that marches fast; 

And we, — whose ocean borders 

Shut off the sound and the sight, 

We will wait for marching orders; 

The world has seen us fight; 

We have earned our days of revel; 

'On with the dance' ! we cry. 

It is pain to think ; we will eat and drink ! 

And live; for to-morrow we die." 

" *We have laughed in the eyes of danger; 

We have given our bravest and best; 

We have succored the starving stranger; 

Others shall heed the rest.' 

And the revel never ceases; 

And the nations hold their breath; 

And our laughter peals, and the mad world reels. 

To a carnival of death. 

"Slaves of sloth and the senses, 
Clippers of Freedom's wings, 

26 



Come back to the Pilgrim's Army 1620-1920 

And fight for the King of Kings; 

Come back to the Pilgrim's conscience; 

Be born in the nation's birth ; 

And strive again as simple men 

For the freedom of the earth. 

Freedom a free-born nation still shall cherish, 

Be this our covenant, unchanging, sure: 

Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish; 

Freedom and Truth immortal shall endure." 



Land of our fathers, when the tempest rages, 
When the w^ide earth is racked with war and crime, 
Founded forever on the Rock of Ages, 
Beaten in vain by surging seas of time, 

Even as the shallop on the breakers riding. 
Even as the Pilgrim kneeling on the shore. 
Firm in thy faith and fortitude abiding, 
Hold thou thy children free forever more. 



And when we sail as Pilgrims' sons and daughters 
The spirit's Mayflower into seas unknown. 
Driving across the waste of wintry waters 
The voyage every soul shall make alone. 

The Pilgrim's faith, the Pilgrim's courage grant us; 
Still shines the truth that for the Pilgrim shone. 
We are his seed; nor life nor death shall daunt us. 
The port is Freedom! Pilgrim heart, sail on! 

Le Baron Russell Briggs 
^7 



THE CROSS-CURRENT 

THROUGH twelve stout generations 
New England blood I boast; 
The stubborn pastures bred them, 
The grim, lincordial coast, 

Sedate and proud old cities, — 

Loved well enough by me. 
Then how should I be yearning 

To scour the earth and sea. . 

Each of my Yankee forbears 
Wed a New England mate; 

They dwelt and did and died here. 
Nor glimpsed a rosier fate. 

My clan endured their kindred; 

But foreigners they loathed, 
And wandering folk, and minstrels. 

And gypsies motley-clothed. 

Then why do patches please me, 

Fantastic, wild array? 
Why have I vagrant fancies 

For lads from far away. 

My folk were godly Churchmen, — 
Or paced in Elders' weeds ; 

But all were grave and pious 
And hated heathen creeds. 
28 



Then why are Thor and Wotan J.^^ 

To dread forces still? Cnti-'ent 

Why does my heart go questing 
For Pan beyond the hill? 

My people clutched at freedom. — 

Tho'ugh others* wills they chained, — 
But made the Law and kept it, — 

And Beauty, they restrained. 

Then why am T a rebel 

To laws of rule and square? 
Why would I dream and dally, 

Or, reckless, do and dare? 

O righteous, solemn Grandsires, 

O dames, correct and mild. 
Who bred me of your virtues ! 

Whence comes this changing child? — 

The thirteenth generation, — 

Unlucky number this ! — 
My grandma loved a Pirate. 

And all my faults are his ! 

A gallant, r'uffled rover. 

With beauty-lovinp: eye, 
He swept Colonial waters 

Of coarser, bloodier fry. 

He waved his hat to danger. 

At Law he shook his fist. 
Ah, merrily he plundered. 

He sang and fought and kissed! 
29 



^^^ Though none have found his treasure, 

Current ^^^ none his part would take, — 

I bless that thirteenth lady 
Who chose him for my sake! 

Abbie Farwell Brown 



30 



CANDLEMAS 



o 



HEARKEN, all ye little weeds 
That lie beneath the snow, 
(So low^ dear hearts, in poverty so low!) 
The sun hath risen for royal deeds, 
A valiant wind the vanguard leads; 
Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds 
Before ye rise and blow. 

O furry living things, adream 
On winter's drowsy breast, 
(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!) 
Arise and follow where a gleam 
Of wizard gold unbinds the stream. 
And all the woodland windings seem 
With sweet expectance blest. 

My birds, come back! the hollow sky 

Is weary for your note. 
(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow 

throat!) 
Ere May's soft minions hereward fly, 
Shame on ye, Laggards, to deny 
The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye. 

The tawny, shining coat! 

Alice Brown 



31 



SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN 

O SWIFT forerunners, rosy with the race! 
Spirits of dawn, divinely manifest 
Behind your blushing banners in the sky, 
Daring invaders of Nighf s tenting-ground, — 
How do ye strain on forward-bending foot, 
Each to be first in heralding of joy! 

With silence sandalled, so they weave their way, 
And so they stand, with silence panoplied. 
Chanting, through mystic symboUings of flame, 
Their solemn invocation to the light. 

O changeless guardians ! O ye wizard first ! 
What strenuous philter feeds your potency. 
That thus ye rest, in sweet wood-hardiness. 
Ready to learn of all and utter naught? 
What breath may move ye, or what breeze invite 
To odorous hot landings of the heart? 
What wind — ^but all the winds are yet afar, 
And e'en the little tricksy zephyr sprites, 
That fleet before them, like their elfin locks. 
Have lagged in sleep, nor stir nor waken yet 
To pluck the robe of patient majesty. 

Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep. 
So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones. 
Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait^ 
Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm. 
And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn, 

And all night thrills with memory and desire, 
Searching in what has been for what shall be: 

32 



The marvel of the ne'er familiar day, Sunrise 

Sacred investiture of life renewed, Mansfield 

The chrism of dew, the coronal of flame. Mountain 

Low in the valley lies the conquered rout 

Of man's poor, trivial turmoil, lost and drowned 

Under the mist, in gleaming rivers rolled, 

Where oozy marsh contends with frothing main. 

And rounding all, springs one full, ambient arch, 

One great good limpid world — so still, so still! 

For no sound echoes from its crystal curve 

Save four clear notes, the song of that lone bird 

Who, brave but trembling, tries his morning hymn, 

And has no heart to finish, for the awe 

And wonder of this pearling globe of dawn. 

Light, light eternal ! veiling-place of stars ! 

Light, the revealer of dread beauty's face! 

Weaving whereof the hills are lambent clad! 

Mighty libation to the Unknown God ! 

Cup whereat pine-trees slake their giant thirst 

And little leaves drink sweet delirium ! 

Being and breath and potion I living soul 

And all-informing heart of all that lives ! 

How can we magnify thine awful name 

Save by its chanting : Light ! and Light ! and Light ! 

An exhalation from far sky retreats. 

It grows in silence, as 'twere self-create. 

Suffusing all the dusky web of night. 

But one lone comer it invades not yet, 

Where low above a black and rimy crag 

Hangs the old moon, thin as a battered shield. 

The holy, useless shield of long-past wars, 

Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark. 

But lo! the east, — let none forget the east. 
Pathway ordained of old where He should tread. 

33 



Sunrise Through some sweet magic common in the skies, 
Mansfield ^^^ ^^^^ banners are with saffron tinct ; 
Mountain The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire, 

And led by silence more majestical 

Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He 
comes ! 

He holds His spear benignant, sceptrewise, 

And strikes out flame from the adoring hills. 

Alice Brown 



34 



BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE 

BURNT are the petals of life as a rose fallen and 
crumbled to dust. 
Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must 
Forever be sifted, more preciolis than sunbeams that 

open the budding to-morrow. 
Once was a passion completed, — too perfect, the 

Gods have not broken to borrow — 
Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must 
Forever be sifted. O, loving to-morrow 
The rose of the past is, Life — Eternity's dust. 

Elsie Pumpelly Cabot 



35 



FOUR FOUNTAINS AFTER RESPIGHI 

FRESH mists of Roman dawn; 
For water search the cattle; 
Faintly on damp air sounds the shepherd's horn 
Above fountain Giulia's prattle. 

Triton, joyous and loud 

Of Naiads summons troops; 
A frenziedly leaping and mingling crowd, 

Dancing, pursuing gro\ips. 

At high noon the trumpets peal, 

Neptune's chariot passes by; 
Trains of sirens, tritons, Trevi's jets heal 

Then trumpets' echoes sigh. 

Tolling bell and sunset. 

Twittering birds and calm; 
Medici's fountain, shimmering net, 

Into the night brings balm. 

Jessica Carr 



36 



IN THE TROLLEY CAR 

THE swart Italian in the trolley car, 
Hoarded his children in his arms and breast; 
The mother, all unheeding, sat afar, 

Her splendid eyes were vague, her lips 
compressed. 

bne Raphael-boy slipped from his father's knee. 
Climbed to her side, and gently stroked her 
cheek. 

She turned away, and would not hear his plea. 
She turned away, and would not even speak. 

With trembling lips the child crept back again 
To the warm shelter of his father's breast; 

We looked indignant pity, for till then 

We thought that mother-love bore every test. 

We rose to go, the father-mother said. 

In deep, low tones, "Don't t'inka hard you bet 
The younges' was too-seeck, and he is dead. 

She will be alia right, when she forget." 

When she forgets! "Great-Heart," hold closer yet 
Thy precious brood and let it feel no lack ! 

Until her soul shall wake, but not forget, 

When the warm tides of love come surging 
back, 

. Ruth Baldwin Chenery 



Z7 



IN IRISH RAIN 

THE great world stretched its arms to me and 
held me to its breast, 
They say I've song-birds in my throat, and give me 

of their best; 
But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me 

back again 
To little Mag o' Monagan*s a-singing in the rain. 

The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet 

that fills 
The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across 

the hills; 
That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty 

childish feet, 
And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with 

burning peat. 

And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the 
young ones in, 

Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the 
prickly whin; 

The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle pur- 
ring soft, 

The dear-remembered Irish speech — they call to me 
how oft! 

They mind me just a slip o' girl in tattered kirtlc 

blue, 
But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I 

do! 
And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day 
With little Mag o' Monagan's a-laughing down the 

way. 

38 



There's fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set {«. , 

1 r Irish 

before, ^^^^ 

But make me free to that again — Fll not be wanting 

more. 
But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the 

years again 
To little Mag o* Monagan's a-singing in the rain. 

Martha Haskell Clark 



3Q 



CRETONNE TROPICS 

THE cretonne in your willow chair 
Shows through a zone of rosy air, 
A tree of parrots, agate-eyed, 
With blue-green crests and plumes of pride 
And beaks most formidably curved. 
I hear the river, silver-nerved, 
To their shrill protests make reply, 
And the palm forest stir and sigh. 

Curious, the spell that colors cast, 
Binding the fancy coweb-fast, 
And you would smile if you could know 
I like your cretonne parrots so! 
But I have seen them sail toward night 
Superbly homeward, the last light 
Lifting them like a purple sea 
Scorned and made use of arrogantly; 
And I have heard them cry aloud 
From out a tall palm's emerald cloud; 
And I brought home a brilliant feather, 
Lost like a flake of sunset weather. 

Here in the north the sea is white 
And mother-of-pearl in morning light. 
Quite lovely, but there is a glare 
That daunts me. 

Now the willow chair 
Suggests a more perplexing sea, 
Till my heart aches with memory 
And parrots dye the air around. 
And I forget the pallid Sound. 

Grace Hazard Conkling 

40 



TO HILDA OF HER ROSES 

ENOUGH has been said about roses 
To fill thirty thick volumes : 
There are as many songs about roses 
As there are roses in the world 
That includes Mexico . . . the Azores . . . Oregon . . . 

It is a pity your roses 
Are too late for Omar . . . 
It is a pity Keats has gone . . . 

Yet there must be something left to say 

Of flowers like these! 

Adventurers, 

They pushed their way 

Through dewy tunnels of the June night . . . 

Now they confer . . . 

A little tremulous . . . 

Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning . . . 

If Herrick would tiptoe back . , . 
If Blake were to look this way . . . 
Ledwidge, even! 

► Grace Hazard Conkling 



41 



DANDELION 



O 



LITTLE soldier with the Rolden helmet. 
What are you guarding on my lawn? 
You with your green gun 
And your yellow beard, 
Why do you stand so stiff? 
There is only the grass to fight! 

Hilda Conkling 



42 



RED ROOSTER 

RED ROOSTER in your gray coop, 
O stately creature with tail-feathers red and 
blue, 
Yellow and black, 

You have a comb gay as a parade 
On your head : 
You have pearl trinkets 
On yolir feet : 

The short feathers smooth along your back 
Are the dark color of wet rocks, 
Or the rippled green of ships 
When I look at their sides through water. 
I don't know how you happened to be made 
So proud, so foolish, 
Wearing your coat of many colors, 
Shouting all day long your crooked words, 
Loud . . . sharp . . . not beautiful ! 

Hilda Conkling 



45 



T 



VELVETS 

(by a bed of pansies) 

^HIS pansy has a thinking face 
Like the yellow moon. 
This one has a face with white blots; 
I call him the clown. 
Here goes one down the grass 
With a pretty look of plumpness; 
She is a little girl going to school 
With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore. 
Her name is Sue. 
I like this one, in a bonnet, 
Waiting, 

Her eyes are so deep! 
But these on the other side, 
These that wear purple and blue, 
They are the Velvets, 
The king with his cloak, 
The queen with her gown, 
The prince with his feather. 
These are dark and quiet 
And stay alone. 
I know you, Velvets, 
Color of Dark, 
Like the pine-tree on the hill 
When stars shine! 

Hilda Conkling 



44 



THE MOODS 

THE Moods have laid their hands across my 
hair: 
The Moods have drawn their fingers through 

my heart; 
My hair shall never more lie smooth and bright, 
But stir like tide-worn sea-weed, and my heart 
Shall never more be glad of small sweet things, — 
A wild rose, or a crescent moon, — a book 
Of little verses, or a dancing child. 
My heart turns crying from the rose and book, 
My heart turns crying from the thin bright moon, 
And weeps with useless sorrow for the child. 
The Moods have loosed a wind to vex my hair. 
And made my heart too wise, that was a child. 

Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame: 

I shall desire all things that may not be : 

The years, the stars, the souls of ancient men, 

All tears that must, and smiles that may noj: be, — 

Yes, glimmering lights across a windy ford, 

And vagrant voices on a darkened plain, 

And holy things, and out-cast things,, and things. 

Far too remote, frail-bodied to be plain. 

My pity and my joy are grown alike. 
I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart. 
The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair : 
The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my 
heart. 

Fannie Stearns Davis 
45 



HILL-FANTASY 

^ITTETH by the red cairn a broimi One, a 
O hoofed One, 

High upon the mountain, where the grasses fait. 
Where the ash-trees flourish far their biasing 

bunches to the sun, 
A brown One, a hoofed One, pipes against the gale. 



I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering; 
No one but the pine trees and the white birch knew. 
Over rocks I scrambled, looked up and saw that 

Strange Thing, 
Peaked ears and sharp horns, pricked against the 

blue. 

Oh, and how he piped there! piped upon the high 

reeds 
Till the blue air crackled like a frost-film on a pool ! 
Oh, and how he spread himself, like a child whom 

no one heeds, 
Tumbled chuckling in the brook, all sleek and kind 

and cool ! 

He had berries 'twixt his horns, crimson-red as 

cochineal. 
Bobbing, wagging wantonly they tickled him, and oh, 
How his deft lips puckered round the reed, and 

seemed to chase and steal 
Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music low! 

46 



I said, "Good-day, Thou!" He said, "Good-day, Hiiu 

Thou !" Fantasy 

Wiped his reed against the spotted doe-skin on his 

back.. 
He said, "Come up here, and I will teach thee piping 

now. 
While the earth is singing so, for tunes we shall not 

lack." 

Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me. 
Up scrambled I. So we sat beside the cairn. 
Broad into my face laughed that horned Thing so 

naughtily. 
Oh, it was a rascal of a woodland Satyr's bairn ! 

"So blow, and so. Thou ! Move thy fingers 

faster, look! 
Move them like the little leaves and whirling midges. 

So! ^ ^ 

Soon 'twill twist like tendrils and out-twinkle like 

the lost brook. 
Move thy fingers merrily, and blow ! blow ! blow !" 

Brown One! Hoofed One! beat time to keep me 

straight. 
Kick it on the red stone, whistle in my ear. 
Brush thy crimson berries in my face, then hold 

thy breath, for — wait! 
Joy comes bubbling to my lips. I pipe, oh, hear ! 

Blue sky, art glad of us? Green wood, art glad of 

us? 
Old hard-heart mountain, dost thou hear me, how 

I blow? 
Far away the sea-isles swim in sun-haze luminous. 
Each one has a color like the seven-splendored bow. 

47 



Hill- Wind, wind, wind, dost thou mind me how I pipe. 

Fantasy ^^^ p 

Chipmunk chattVing in the beech, rabbit in the 

brake ? 
Furry arm around my neck : "Oh, Thou art a brave 

one, Thou !" 
Satyr, little satyr- friend, my heart with jgy doth 

ache! 

Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music tremulous. 
Water over steaming rocks, water in the shade. 
Storm-tune and sun-tune, how they flock up unto us, 
Sitting by the red cairn, gay and unafraid! 

Brown One, Hoofed One, give me nimble hoofs. 

Thou! 
Give me furry fingers and a secret furry tail! 
Pleasant are thy smooth horns: if their like were 

on my brow 
Might I not abide here, till the strong sun fail? 

Oh, the sorry brown eyes ! Oh, the soft kind hand- 
touch, 
Sudden brush of velvet ears across my wind-cool 

cheek ! 
"Play-mate, Pipe-mate, thou askest one good boon 

too much. 
I could never find thee horns, though day-lonjg 
I seek. 

"Yet, keep the pipe, Thou: I will cut another one. 
Keep the pipe and play on it for all the world to hear. 
Ah, but it was good once to sit together in the sun! 
Though I have but half a soul, it finds thee very 
dear! 

48 



"Wise Thing, Mortal Thing, yet my half-soul fears HiU- 

thee! P""*'"' 

Take the pipe and go thy ways, — quick now, for 

the sun 
Reels across the hot west and stumbles dazzled to 

the sea. 
Take the pipe, and oh — one kiss ! then run, run, 

run ! run !" 

Silence on the mountain. Lonely stands the high 

cairn. 
All the leaves a-shivering, all the stones dead-gray. 

thou cold small pipe, which way is fled that 

Satyr's bairn? 

1 am lost and all alone, and down drops th^ day. 



/ was on the mountain, zvandering, wandering 
There I got this Pipe o' dreams. Strange, when 

I blow. 
Something deep as human love starts a-crying^ 

troubling. 
Is it only sky-music, earth-music low? 

Fannie Stearns Davis 



49 



THE MIRAGE 

ACROSS the Bay are low-lying cliffs, 
Where stand fishermen's cottages: 
I can barely distinguish them with the naked eye. 
But to-day the cliffs are lifted, escarpt, 
Perpendicular, mysterious, inaccessible, 
And those sordid dwellings have become 
The magnificent fortified castles of Sea-kings. 

Nathan Haskell Dole 



50 



THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN 

A ROAD goes up a pleasant hill, 
And a little house looks down: 
Ah ! but I see the roadway still 
And the day I left the town. 

The day I left my father's home, 

It's many a year ago, 
And a heart and hope were brave to roam 

The long, long road I know. 

The long, long road by hill and plain, 

It's tired the heart might be: 
But hope stayed bright in sun or rain. 

And a Voice that called to me. 

A Voice that called me over the hill 

And out of the little town : 
Ah ! but I see the roadway still 

And the good house looking down. 

The house that spake me never a No! 

As I started brave away. 
But said with a blessing, Go! 

And followed me every day. 

It followed me down the road of years, 

For a father's heart is true, 
And joy is sweet in a mother's tears 

For the deeds her child may do. 

The poor little deeds all powerless 
For the Kingdom of God would be, 
51 



The Road Save in His mercy will He bless 

TheToum The road that goes with me: 

The road that left a pleasant hill, 
Where a little house looks down: 

Ah ! but I bless the roadway still. 
And the land beyond the town. 

Michael Earls, S. J. 



52 



THE LILAC 

THE scent of lilac in the air 
Hath made him drag his steps and pause; 
Whence comes this scent within the Square, 
Where endless dusty traffic roars? 
A push-cart stands beside the curb, 

With fragrant blossoms laden high; 
Speak low, nor stare, lest we disturb 
His sudden reverie! 

He sees us not, nor heeds the din 

Of clanging car and scuffling throng; 
His eyes see fairer sights within, 
And memory, hears the robin's song 
As once it trilled against the day. 

And shook his slumber in a room 
Where drifted with the breath of May 
The lilac's sweet perflime. 

The heart of boyhood in him stirs ; 

The wonder of the morning skies, 
Of sunset gold behind the firs, 
Is kindled in his dreaming eyes: 
How far off is this sordid place, 

As turning from our sight away 
He crushes to his hungry face 
A purple lilac spray. 

Walter Prichard Eaton 



53 



GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, 
GAVE ME LOVE 

GOD, through his offspring Nature, gave me love, 
Though man in opposition saith me nay, 
And taketh from my heart its life to-day, 
As through the valley of the world I rove. 
Still unaccompanied, within the grove 
That doth enamored beings hold at play, 
My spirit must pursue its lonely way, 
And strive to pluck some flowers that blooni above. 
Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desire 
To have that which mankind may not poss^ess. 
And force him to endure on earth hell's fire, 
And live in one perpetual distress? 
Some evil power must such love inspire, 
And with it masquerade in Cupid's dress! 

Charles Gibson 



54 



TO MUSIC 

"Music, the language, the atmosphere of the SouV 

I^LY back where Melodies like lilies grow, 
r My weary heart is bending low; 

Fly higher yet to joyful realms above, 
Where holy Angels dwell in love. 

Fly higher still and hear the Angel throng 
And bring to me their Glory-song 

Ah Music, thou and I above the World 
May dwell where Heaven with shining song is 
pearled ! 

While Sun and Moon and all the planets roll 
rU love thee, Music, language of my soul ! 

Music — lark from on high, song that doth fly^ 
Spark of the sky! 

Maude Gordon-Roby 



55 



THE VOICE IN THE SONG 

HIGH in the apple bough jauntily, swinging, 
Hid by the branches in bridal array, 
Straight from his heart, all his life in his singing, 
Chants a wee bird, lures his mate with his lay. 
"Sweet, sweet, my sweet, 
Hear I entreat! 
Say, love, together, this bright sunny weather, 
Gold of the west we shall weave in a nest ! 
Have no fear! Trust me, dear! 
Sunshine of May that will gild every day 
Pledge I to thee if thou'lt barken to me." 

Lo! in the light thro* the gay branches streaming, 
Quivering in answer to all the bird sings. 
Warm on a breath, leaps a soul with love gle;aming. 
Speeds to its mate on its glittering wings. 
"Dear, on thy breast 
Earth yields its best! 
Loud in the singing I heard thy call ringing, 
Pleading and strong in the voice of the song. 

Whisper low, — Yes, just so! — 
Softly revealing the depth of thy feeling. 
Words in whose fire glow thy love and desire." 

Mary Gertrude Hamilton 



56 



HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT 
WELLESLEY COLLEGE 



MOUNT CARMEL 



w 



HERE art Thou, O my Lord? 
Mount Carmel saw the throng 
Of priests and heard the song; 
To Baal was their call — 
From morn till night did fall. 



Where art Thou, O my Lord? 
Again Molint Carmel heard 
Not in the spoken word, 
Not in the earthquake's shock, 
Not in the rending rock. 

Where art Thou, O my Lord? 
The still voice softly speaks; 
Each soul it swiftly seeks 
Not in the thunder roll, 
But in the inmost soul. 



II 



VESPER HYMN 

Send peaceful sleep, O Lord, this night, 
To keep us till the morning light; 
And let no vision of alarm 
Come near to do Thy children harm. 
57 



^^T^^ Within Thy cirding arms we lie, 

Anthems O God, in Thine infinity; 

Sung Our souls in quiet shall abide 

Wellesley "^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^" ^^^^ side. 

College 

III 



THIS IS THAT BREAD 

This is that Bread that came down from Heaven; 
he that eateth of this Bread shall live forever. 

Bread on which angels feed, 
Bread for the spirit's need 

By. faith receiving. 
New life do Thou impart, 
New strength to every heart, 
Pure love of God Thou art 

To us believing. 

IV 

O SLOW OF HEART 

O slow of heart to believe ! Ought Christ not to 
have suffered these things and to enter into His 
Glory f 

Quicken, Lord, m,y fainting heart, 
Touch my eyes that they may see, 

Let me know Thee as Thou art. 
Life and Immortality. 



S8 



Hymns 
■y and 

' Anthems 

Sung 

ALL HAIL TO THEE, CHILD JESUS ^ 

All hail to Thee, child Jesus ! ^''^^'^^ 

As the brooding darkness flies 
At the swift approach of day, 

Sun of righteousness, arise, 
Chase the gloom of night away. 

Great Prince of Peace, come to thine own, 
And bliild in every heart Thy throne. 

Come to shed Thy healing balm 

On all nations of the earth, 
Child Jesus, come with holy calm, 

How we hail thy wondrous birth. 
Great Prince of Peace, come to Thine own, 

And build in every heart Thy throne. 
All hail to Thee, Child Jesus ! 

VI 

THE WINE-PRESS 

Who is this that comes from Edom 

In such glorious array. 
With his festal garments gleaming, 

Travelling on his royal way. 
With a face majestic, calm and grave? 
I that speak in righteousness, mighty to save. 

Why is thy apparel crimson, 
Why is all thy garments' pride 
Stained as in the time of vintage 
59 



Hymns 

And 

Anthems 

Sung 

at 

Wellesley 

College 



And with blood-red color dyed? 
Because of helpers I had none — 
I have trodden the wine-press alone. 



VII 

WAKEN, shepherds! 

{Angels) Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! 
(Shepherds) Waken, Shepherds, waken; 

Whence this glowing light? 
Ere the dawn of morning, 
Solemn signs of warning 
Portent of affright! 



{Angels) 



Courage, Shepherds, courage! 

Banish your dismay, 
For ye all are saved. 
In the town of David 
Christ is born to-day. 

{Shepherds) Harken, Shepherds, harken, 
Hear the angels sing! 
Jehovah sends a token, 
He himself hath spoken 
To proclaim our King. 

{Angels) Hasten, Shepherds, hasten, 
This shall be your sign; 
Where the kine are stabled, 
In a manger cradled 
Lies the Child Divine. 



60 



(Shepherds Angels, Shepherds, People, Hymns 

and Shout the glad refrain! ^Anthems 

Angels) Joy to every nation Sung 

Bringing full salvation, Wellesley 

Christ has come to reign. College 
Hosanna ! Hosanna ! Hosanna ! 

Caroline Hazard 



6i 



REUBEN ROY 

A LITTLE fellow, brown with wind- 
I saw him in the street 
Peering at numbers on the posts, 
But most discreet: 

For when a woman came outdoors, 

Or slyly peeped instead, 
He turned away, took off his hat, 

And scratched his head. 

I watched him from my garden-wall 

Perhaps an hour or more. 
For something in his attitude, 

The clothes he wore, 

Awoke the dimmest memories 

Of when I was a boy 
And knew the story of a man 

Named Reuben Roy. 

It seems that Reuben went to sea 
The night his wife decried 

The fence he built before their house 
And up the side. 

He wanted it but she did not, 

Because it hid from view 
The spot in which her mignonette 

And tulips grew. 

Nobody saw his face again. 
But each year, unawares, 
62 



He sent a sum for taxes due — Reuben 

And fence repairs. ^^ 

My curiosity aroused, 

I sauntered forth to see 
Whether this individual 

Were really he. 

"Who are you looking for?" I asked 

His eyes, like two bright pence, 
Sparkled at mine; and then he said: 

"A fence." 

"Somebody burned it Hallowe'en, 

When people were in bed ; 
Before the judge could prosecute, 

The culprit fled." 

Well, Reuben only touched his hat 

And mumbled, "Thank you, sir," 
And asked me whereabouts to find 

A carpenter. 

Harold Crawford Stearns 



6Z 



COUNTRY ROAD 

X CAN'T forget a gaunt grey barn 
Like a face wfithout an eye 
That kept recurring by field and tarn 
Under a Cape Cod sky. 

I can't forget a woman's hand, 
Roughened and scarred by toil 

That beckoned clear-eyed children tanned 
By sun and wind and soil. 

Beauty and hardship, bent and bound 

Under the selfsame yoke : 
Babies with bare knees plump and round 

And stooping women folk. 

Marie Louise Hersey 



64 



WREATHS 



RED wreaths 
Hang in my neighbor's window. 
Green wreaths in my own. 
On this day I lost my husband. 
On this day you lost your boy. 
On this day 
Christ was born. 
Red wreaths, 
Green wreaths 
Hang in our v/indows, 
Red for a bleeding heart, 
Green for grave grass. 
Mary, mother of Jesus, 
Look down and comfort us. 
You too knew passion; 
You too knew pain. 
Comfort us, 

Who are not brides of God, 
Nor bore God. 
On Christmas day 
Hang wreaths. 
Red for new pain. 
Green for spent passion. 

Carolyn Hillman 



ss 



MEMPHIS 

WHY should I sing of my present? It is noth- 
ing to me or you, 
Rather Vd dream of Dixie and the ships on the old 

bayou ! 
Rather Td dream of my packets and the lazy river 

days, 
Rather I'd dream of my levee and the crimson sunset 
haze, 

Rather Fd dream of my triumphs, of the days that 

are long gone by, 
Rather Td dream of flame-tipped stacks against a 

saffron sky, 
Of level lawns of topaz, of level fields of jade, 
Of the rambling pillared mansions that my fathers' 

fathers made! 

Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing 

to you or me. 
But the river road, the great road, the high road to 

the sea! 
Aye, that is worth the dreaming, aye, that was 

worth the pain. 
Send me back my river, and I shall wake again! 

Gordon Malherbe Hillman 



m 



SAINT COLUMBKILLE 

COLUMBKILLE! Saint Columbkille! 
You naughty man, Saint Columbkille! 
Why did you Finnian's Psalter take 
And secretly a copy make? 
You know 'twas such a naughty thing 
For one descended from a king 
To lock himself into a cell, 
'Twas far from right, — you knew it well, — 
And copy Finnian's Psalter through, 
Against his will as well you knew. 
And then to think a common bird 
Should feel such shame, that when he heard 
The breathing spy outside your door, 
And felt your sainthood was no more, 
Should through the crack attack the spy, 
And in a rage pluck out his eye. 
As if that saintly Irish crane 
Would hide from all your Saintship's stain. 
I grieve to think that you did add 
Sin unto sin; it is too bad. 
For Finnian could not you persuade 
To yield the copy that you made. 
Until the King in his behalf 
Ruled — 'To each cow belongs her calf" : 
And then you grew so mad you swore 
On Erin's face you'd look no more. 
And crossed the sea the Picts to save. 
Because you so did misbehave 
To dear Saint Finnian; faith, 'twas ill 
For you to act so, Columbkille! 
A saint you were no doubt, no doubt! 
What pity 'twas you were found out! 
We know an angel (snob or fool?) 
67 



r'^V^* uun To Kiaran showed a common rule, 
Columbkilh ^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^g^^^ ^^^ ^ g^^^ 

And told that saint it was the law 

Of Heaven that Columbkille should be 

Far, far above such saints as he; 

For Columbkille contemned a crown, 

While he these homely tools laid down» 

To serve the Lord, and that the Lord 

To each would give his due reward. 

I wonder if that angel knew 

That Christ these tools had laid down too. 

O Columbkille! O Columbkille! 

A saint like you must have his will, 

But for myself Fd rather be 

The common sinner that you see 

Than make a crane ashamed of me, 

And angels talk such idiocy. 

E. J. V. HUIGINN 



68 



MISS DOANE 



MISS Doane was sixty, probably; 
She rented third floor room 
That opened on an airshaft full 
Of cooking smells and gloom. 

She worked in philanthropic man's 
Well-known department store; 

Cashiered in basement, hot and close, 
For forty years or more. 

Each night when she came home she'd stand 

A moment in the hall, 
Before she went into her room 

With low and tender call. 

And often I would hear her voice 

Repeat a childish prayer; 
Or read some old, old fairy tale 

Of Princess, grand and fair. 

One night I went to visit her 

And spied, in little chair 
A great wax doll, in dainty dress, 

And curls of flaxen hair. 

I praised the doll; its prettiness; 

Miss Doane said, "Fm alone. 
She comforts me. I wanted so 

A child to call my own." 

69 



Miss Each night I heard her softly sing 

^^^^^ A childish lullaby; 

But once, and just before she died, 
I heard her cry and cry! 

Winifred Virginia Jackson 



70 



FALLEN FENCES 

THE woods grew dark; black shadows 
rocked 
And I could scarcely see 
My way along the old tote road, 
That long had seemed to me 

To wind on aimlessly; but now 

Came full to life; the rain 
Would soon strike down; ahead I saw 

A clearing, and a lane 

Between gray, fallen fences and 
Wide, grayer, grim stone walls; 

So grim and gray I shrank from thought 
Of weary, aching spalles. 

On stony knoll great aspens swayed 
And swung in browsing teeth 

Of wind; slim, silvered yearlings shook 
And shivered underneath. 

Beyond, some ancient oak trees bent 

And wrangled over roof 
Of weatherbeaten house, and barn 

Whose sag bespoke no hoof. 

And ivy crawled up either end 
Of house, to chimney, where 

It lashed in futile anger at 

The wind wolves of the air. 

I thought the house abandoned, and 
I ran to get inside, 
71 



Fallen When suddenly the old front door 

Fences ^^^^ opened and flung wide : 

And she stood there, with hand on knob, 

As I went swiftly in, 
Then closed the door most softly on 

The storm and shrieking din. 

A space I stood and looked at her, 
So young; 'twjas passing strange 

That fifty years or more had gone 

And brought no new style's change. 

The sweetness, daintiness of her 
In starched and dotted gown 

Of creamy whiteness, over hoops, 
With ruffles winding down! 

We had not much to say, and yet 
Of words I felt no lack; 

Her smiles slipped into dimples, stopped 
A moment, then dropped back. 

I felt her pride of race; her taste 

In silken rug and chair, 
And quaintly fashioned furniture 

Of patterns old and rare. 

On window sill a rose bush stood; 

Twas bringing rose to bud; 
One, full bloomed there but yesterday, 

Dropped petals, red as blood. 

Quite soon, she asked to be excused 
For just a moment, and 
72 



Went out, returning with a tray Fallen 

In either slender hand. ^^^^^^ 

My glance could not bui linger on 

Each thin and lovely cup; 
"This came, dear thing,, from home !*' she 
sighed 

The while she raised it up. 

And when the storm was done and I 

Arose, reluctantly 
To go, she too was loath to have 

Me go, it seemed to me. 

When I reached old Joe Webber's place. 

Upon the Corner Road, 
I went into the Upper Field 

Where Joe, round-shouldered, hoed 

Potatoes, culling them with hoe 

And practised, calloused hand, 
In rounded piles that brownly glowed 

Upon the fresh-turned land. 

"Say, Joe," I said, 'who is that girl 

With beauty's smiling charm. 
That lives beyond that hemlock growth, 

On that old grown-up farm?'* 

Joe listened, while I told him where 

Fd been that afternoon, 
Then straightened from his hoe, and hummed. 

Before he spoke, a tune. 

73 



Fallen "They cum ter thet old place ter live 

P^^f^^^ Some sixty years ago; 

Jest where they cum from, who they ware, 
Wy, no one got to know. 

"An' then, one day, he hired Hen's 

Red racker an' the gig; 
We never heard from him nor could 

We track the hoss or rig. 

"Hen waited 'bout a week, an' then 

He went ter see the Wife; 
He found her in thet settin' room: 

She'd taken of her life. 

"An' no one's lived in thet house sence; 

Some say 'tis haunted, — but 
I ain't no use fer foolishness, 

So all I say's tut! tut!" 

Winifred Virginia Jackson 



74 



CROSS-CURRENTS 

THEY wrapped my soul in eiderdown; 
They placed me warm and snug 
In carved chair; set me with care 
Upon an old prayer rug. 

They cased my feet in golden shoes 

That hurt at toe and heel; 
My restless feet, with youth all fleet, 

Nor asked how they might feel. 

And now they wonder where I am, 
And search with shrill, cold cry; 

But I crouch low where tall reeds grow, 
And smile as they pass by! 

Winifred Virginia Jackson 



75 



THE FAREWELL 

WHAT is more beautiful 
Than thought, soul-fed, 
That I may be the crimson of a rose 
When dead? 

My soul, so light a joy 

And grief will be, 
That it will gently press the brown earth down 

On me. 

Winifred Virginia Jackson 



7(> 



SONG 



LET me be great, as stars are great, 
Singing of love, not of hate. 

Love for sweet and simple things 
Like clouds and sea-shell whisperings, 

Cool autumn winds, pale dew-kissed flowers, 
Thin coils of smoke and granite towers. 

Snow-capped mountain peaks that flash 
High above the river^s crash, 

Shrill songs of birds and children's laughter, 
Soft grey shadows trailing after 

Sunbeam sprites that seek the woods 
And lose themselves in solitudes. 

All these Til love, never hate. 
And loving them, I will be great. 

Oliver Jenkins 



77 



LOVE AUTUMNAL 

MY love will come in autumn -time 
When leaves go spinning to the ground 
And wistful stars in heaven chime 
With the leaves' sound. 

Then, we shall walk through dusty lanes 
And pause beneath low-hanging boughs, 
And there, while soft-hued beauty reigns 
We'll make our vows. 

Let others seek in spring for sighs 
When love flames forth from every seed; 
But love that blooms when nature dies 
Is love indeed ! 

Oliver Jenkins 



78 



ECHOES 

TRAVELING at dusk the noisy city street, 
I listened to the newsboys' strident cries 
Of "Extra," as with flying feet, 
They strove to gain this man or that — their prize. 
But one there was with neither shout nor stride, 
And, having bought from him, I stood near-by, 
Pondering the cruel crutches at his side, 
Blaming the crowd's neglect, and wondering why — 

When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet 

The cripple with "On time to-night?'* 

Then, as he handed out the sheet. 

The Youngster's answer — "You're all right. 

My other reg'lars are a little late. 

They'll find I'm short one paper when they come; 

You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait, 

I tho't 'twould cheer him up — he looked so glum!" 

So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way 
For I had found a city's heart that day. 

Ruth Lambert Jones 



79 



WAR PICTURES 



" r^ ERMAN Retreat From Arras"- 
Vjr ^'Official Films' —they came 

After "Corinne and Her Minstrels" 
Had ministered to fame. 

After "Corinne and Her Minstrels" 

Had pigeon-toed away, 
We saw where bits of churches 

And bits of horses lay. 

We saw bleak desolation; 

We saw no unscathed tree. 
We shivered in our comfort 

And murmured : "Can it be !'' 

But later, walking homeward, 

Repeating: "Is it true?" 
We brushed a khaki shoulder 

And asked no more. We knew! 

Ruth Lambert Jones 



80 



AN OLD SONG 

WHEN I was but a young lad, 
And that is long ago, 
I thought that kick loved every man, 

And time his only foe, 
And love was like a hawthorn bush 

That blossomed every May, 
And had but to choose his flower, 
For thaf s the young lad's way. 

Oh, youth's a thriftless squanderer, 

It's easy come and spent, 
And heavy is the going now 

Where once the light foot went. 
The hawthorn bush puts on its white, 

The throstle whistles clear. 
But Spring comes once for every man 

Just once in all the year. 

Arthur Ketchum 



8: 



ROADSIDE REST 



UCH quiet sleep has come to them ! 
_ The Springs and Autumns pass, 
Nor do they know if it be snow 

Or daisies in the grass. 



s 



All day the birches bend to hear 

The river's undertone; 
Across the hush a fluting thrush 

Sings even-song alone. 

But down their dream there drifts no sound, 

The winds may sob and stir : 
On the still breast of Peace they rest 

And they are glad of her. 

They ask not any gift — they mind 

Nor any foot that fares, 
Unheededly life passes by — 

Such quiet sleep is theirs. 

Arthur Ketchum 



82 



OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP 

BED is the boon for me! 
It's well to bake and sweep, 
But hear the word of old Lizette: 
It's better than all to sleep. 

Summer and flowers are gay, 
And morning light and dew; 
But aged eyelids love the dark 
Where never a light peeps through. 

What! — open-eyed, my dears? 
Thinking your hearts will break. 
There's nothing, nothing, nothing, I say, 
That's worth the lying awake! 

I learned it in my youth — 
Love I was dreaming of ! 
I learned it from the needle-work 
That took the place of love. 

I learned it from the years 
And what they brought about; 
From song, and from the hills of joy 
Where sorrow sought me out. 

It's good to dream and turn, 
And turn and dream, or fall 
To comfort with my pack of bones, 
And know of nothing at all ! 

Yes, never know at all ! 
If prowlers mew or bark, 

83 



^f^ Nor wonder if it's three o'clock 

On Sleep ^^ ^^^^ o'clock of the dark. 

When the longer shades have fallen 
And the last weariness 
Has brought the sweetest gift of life. 
The last forgetfulness. 

If a sound as of old leaves 

Stir the last bed I keep, 

Then say, my dears : "It's old Lizette— 

She's turning in her sleep!" 

Agnes Lee 



84 



MOTHERHOOD 

MARY, the Christ long slain, passed silently. 
Following the children joyously astir 
Under the cedrus and the olive tree, 
Pausing to let their laughter float to her. 
Each voice an echo of a voice more dear, 
She saw a little Christ in every face; 
When lo, another woman, gliding near. 
Yearned o'er the tender life that filled the place. 
And Mary sought the woman's hand, and spoke : 
"I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed 
With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke 
Who bring to thee a cMld beloved and lost. 

"I, too, have rocked my little one, 

O, He was fair ! 

Yea, fairer than the fairest sun. 

And like its rays through amber spun 

His sun-bright hair. 

Still I can see it shine and shine." 

"Even so," the woman said, "was mine." 

"His ways were ever darling ways," — 

And Mary smiled, — 

"So soft, so clinging! Glad relays 

Of love were all His precious days. 

My little child! 

My infinite star! My music fled!" 

"Even so was mine," the woman said. 

Then whispered Mary: "Tell me, thou, 
Of thine." And she: 
"O, mine was rosy as a bough 
35 



Mother- Blooming with roses, sent, somehow, 

^''''^ To bloom for me! 

His balmy fingers left a thrill 

Within my breast that warms me still." 

Then gazed she down some wilder, darker 

hour. 
And said, when Mary questioned, knowing not, 
"Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?" 
"I am the mother of Iscariot." 

Agnes Lee 



86 



ESSEX 

I 

THY hills are kneeling in the tardy spring, 
And wait, in supplication's gentleness, 
The certain resurrection that shall bring 

A robe of verdure for their nakedness. 
Thy perfumed valleys v^here the twilights dwell, 

Thy fields within the sunlight's living coil 
Now promise, while the veins of nature swell, 

Eternal recompense to human toil. 
And when the sunset's final shades depart 

The aspiration to completed birth 
Is sweet and silent; as the soft tears start. 

We know how wanton and how little worth 
Are all the passions of our bleeding heart 

That vex the awful patience of the earth. 

II 

Thine are the large winds and the splendid sun 
Glutting the spread of heaven to the floor 
Of waters rhythmic from far shore to shore. 
And thine the stars, revealing one by one. 
Thine the grave, lucent night's oblivion, 
The tawny moon that waits below the skies, — 
Strange as the dawn that smote their blistered eyes 
Who watched from Calvary when the Deed was 

done. 
And thine the good brown earth that bares its 
breast 
To thy benign October, thine the trees 
Lusty with fruitage in the late year's rest; 

87 



Essex And thine the men whose blood has glorified 
Thy name with Liberty's divine decrees — 
The men who loved thy soil and fought and died. 

Ill 

Toward thine Eastern window when the morn 
Steals through the silver mesh of silent stars, 
I come unlaurelled from the strenuous wars 
Where men have fought and wept and died 

forlorn. 
But here, across the early fields of corn, 
The living silence dwelleth, and the gray 
Sweet earth-mist, while afar the lisp of spray 
Breathes from the ocean like a Triton's horn. 
Open thy lattice, for the gage is won 

For which this earth has journeyed though the 
dust 
Of shattered systems, cold about the sun; 
And proved by sin, by mighty lives impe^rled, 
A voice cries through the sunrise: 'Time is 
just!'*— 
And falls like dew God's pity on the world. 

George Cabot Lodge 



88 



THE SONG OF THE WAVE 

I 

THIS is the song of the wave! The mighty one! 
Child of the soul of silence, beating the air to 
sound : 
White as a live terror, as a drawn sword, 
This is the wave. 

II 

This is the song of the wave, the white-maned steed 

of the Tempest 
Whose veins are swollen with life, 
In whose flanks abide the four winds. 
This is the wave. 

Ill 

This is the song of the wave ! The dawn leaped out 

of the sea 
And the waters lay smooth as a silver shield, 
And the sun-rays smote on the waters like a golden 

sword. 
Then a wind blew out of the morning 
And the waters rustled 
And the wave was born! 

IV 

This is the song of the wave ! The wind blew out 
of the noon, 

89 



7^''^ And the white sea-birds like driven foam 

oTthe Winged in from the ocean that lay beyond the sky 
I'Vave And the face of the waters was barred with white, 
For the wave had many brothers, 
And the wave was strong ! 



This is the song of the wave! The wind blew out 

of the sunset 
And the west was lurid as Hell. 
The black clouds closed like a tomb, for the sun was 

dead. 
Then the wind smote full as the breath of God, 
And the wave called to its brothers, 
*This is the crest of life!'' 

VI 

This is the song of the wave, that rises to fall, 
Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of glass 
That has caught the soul of the moonlight. 
Caught and prisoned the moon-beams; 
Its edge is frittered to foam. 
This is the wave! 

VII 

This is the song of the wave, of the wave that falls — 
Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through the 

colours of morning 
It shivers to infinite atoms up the rumbling steep 

of sand. 
This is the wave. 

90 



VIII 

This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness The 
of life. g^«f 

The prodigal this> that lavished its largess of yf/ave^ 
strength 
In the lust of attainment. 
Aiming at things for Heaven too high, 
Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength. 
So tried it the impossible height, till the end was 

found : 
Where ends the soul that yearns for the filjet of 

morning stars. 
The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds, 
Whose eye is filled with the Image of God, 
And the end is Death ! 

George Cadot Lodge 



91 



FRIMAIRE 

DEAREST, we are like two flowers 
Blooming in the garden, 
A purple aster flower and a red one 
Standing alone in a withered desolation. 

The garden plants are shattered and seeded, 
One brittle leaf scrapes against another, 
Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals. 
Now only you and I nodding together. 

Many were with us ; they have all faded. 
Only we are purple and crimson, 
Only we in the dew-clear mornings, 
Smarten into color as the sun rises. 

When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight, 

And later when my cold roots tighten, 

I am anxious for morning, 

I cannot rest in fear of what may happen.. 

You or I — and I am a coward. 
Surely frost should take the crimson. 
Purple is a finer color, 
Very splendid in isolation. 

So we nod above the broken 
Stems of flowers almost rotted. 
Many mornings there cannot be now 
For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you! 

Amy Lowell 

92 



PATTERNS 

I WALK down the garden paths, 
And all the daffodils 
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. 
I walk down the patterned garden paths 
In my stiff, brocaded gown. 
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, 
I too am a rare 
Pattern. As I wander down 
The garden paths. 

My dress is richly figured, 

And the train 

Makes a pink and silver stain 

On the gravel, and the thrift 

Of the borders. 

Just a plate of current fashion, 

Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. 

Not a softness anywhere about me, 

Only a whale-bone and brocade. 

And I sink on a seat in the shade 

Of a lime tree. For my passion 

Wars against the stiff brocade. 

The daffodils and squills 

Flutter in the breeze 

As they please. 

And I weep; 

For the lime tree is in blossom 

And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. 

And the splashing of waterdrops 
In the marble fountain 
Comes down the garden paths. 

93 



Patterns The dripping never stops. 

Underneath my stiffened gown 

Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble 

basin, 
A basin in the midst of hedges grown 
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding. 
But she guesses he is near, 
And the sliding of the water 
Seems the stroking of a dear 
Hand upon her. 

What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! 
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the 

ground. 
All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground. 

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along 

the paths. 
And he would stumble after, 
Bewildered by my laughter. 
I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt 

and the buckles on his shoes. 
I would choose 

To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, 
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted 

lover. 
Till he caught me in the shade. 
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body 

as he clasped me, 
Aching, melting, unafraid. 

With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, 
And the plopping of the waterdrops. 
All about us in the open afternoon — 
I am very like to swoon 
With the weight of this brocade. 
For the sun sifts through the shade. 

94 



Underneath the fallen blossom Patterns 

In my bosom, 

Is a letter I have hid. 

It was brought to me this morning by a rider from 
the Duke. 

''Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hart- 
well 

Died in action Thursday sen'night." 

As I read it in the white morning sunlight. 

The letters squirmed like snakes. 

"Any answer, Madam," said my footman. 

"No," I told him. 

"See that the messenger takes some refreshment. 

No, no answer." 

And I walked into the garden, 

Up and down the patterned paths, 

In my stiff, correct brocade. 

The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in 
the sun. 

Each one. 

I stood upright too. 

Held rigid to the pattern 

By the stiffness of my gown. 

Up and down I walked. 

Up and down. 

In a month he would have been my husband. 

In a month, here, underneath this lime, 

We would have broke the pattern; 

He for me, and I for him, 

He as Colonel, I as lady. 

On this shady seat. 

He had a whim 

That sunlight carried blessing. 

And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." 

Now he is dead. 

95 



Patterns Jn Summer and in Winter I shall walk 
Up and down 
The patterned garden paths 
In my stiff, brocaded gown. 
The squills and the daffodils 

Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, 
and to snow. 

I shall go 

Up and down, 

In my. gown. 

Gorgeously arrayed, 

Boned and stayed. 

And the softness of my body will be guarded from 

embrace 
By each button, hook and lace. 
For the man who should loose me is dead, 
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, 
In a pattern called a war. 
Christ! What are patterns for? 

Amy Lowell 



96 



A BATHER 

THICK dappled by circles of sunshine and 
fluttering shade. 
Your bright, naked body advances, blown over by 

leaves, 
Half -quenched in their various green, just a point 

of you showing, 
A knee or a thigh, sudden glimpsed, then at once 

blotted into 
The filmy and flickering forest, to start out again 
Triumphant in smooth, supple roundness^ edged 

sharp as white ivory, 
Gool, perfect, with rose rarely tinting your lips and 

your breasts. 
Swelling out from the green in the opulent curves 

of ripe fruit. 
And hidden, like fruit, by the swift intermittence 

^ of leaves. 
So, clinging to branches and moss, you advance on 

the ledges 
Of rock which hang over the stream, with the 

wood-smells about you. 
The pungence of strawberry plants and of gum- 
oozing spruces. 
While below runs the water impatient, impatient — 

to take you. 
To splash you, to run down your sides, to sing you 

of deepness. 
Of pools brown and golden, with brown-and-gold 

flags on their borders, 
Of blue, lingering skies floating solemnly over your 

beauty, 
Of undulant waters a-sway in the effort to hold you, 

97 



4 , To keep you submerged and quiescent while over 

^^*^^'' you glories 

The summer. 

Oread, Dryad, or Naiad, or just 
Woman, clad only in youth and in gallant perfection, 
Standing up in a great burst of sunshine, you 

dazzle my eyes 
Like a snow-star, a moon, your effulgence burns up 

in a halo, 
For you are the chalice which holds all the races of 

men. 
You slip into the pool and the water folds over your 

shoulder. 
And over the tree-tops the clouds slowly follow 

your swimming. 
And the scent of the woods is sweet on this hot 

summer morning. 

Amy Lowell 



98 



LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS 

OVER where the Irish hedges 
Are with blossoms white as snow. 
Over where the limestone ledges 

Through the soft green grasses show- 
There the fairies may be seen 
In their jackets red and green, 

Leprechauns and cluricauns, 
And the other ones, I ween. 

And, bedad, it is a wonder 

To behold the way they act. 

They're the lads that seldom blunder, 
Wise and wary, that's the fact. 

You may hold them with your eye; 

Look away and off they fly; 

Leprechauns and cluricauns, 

Bedad, but they are sly! 

They have heaps of golden treasure 

Hid away within the ground. 
Where they spend their days in leisure. 

And where fairy joys abound; 
But to mortals not a guinea 
Will they give — no, not a penny. 

Leprechauns and cluricauns, 
Their gold is seldom found. 

Maybe of a morning early 

As you pass a lonely rath, 
You may see a little curly- 
Headed fairy in your path. 
He'll be working at a shoe, 

99 



Lepre- But he*ll have his eye on you — 

And^^ Leprechauns and cluricauns, 

Cluricauns They know just what to do. 

Visions of a life of riches 

Surely will before you flash; 
(You'll no longer dig the ditches, 

You'll be well supplied with cash.) 
And you'll seize the little man, 
And you'll hold him — if you can; 

Leprechauns and cluricauns, 
'Tis they're the slipp'ry clan! 

Denis A. McCarthy 



100 



UENVOI 

WHEN the time for parting comes, and the 
day is on the wane, 
And the silent evening darkens over hill and over 

plain, 
And earth holds no more sorrow, no more grief, 
and no more pain, 
Shall we weary for the battle and the strife? 

When at last the trail is ending, and the stars are 

growing near, 
And we breathe the breath of conquest, and the 

voices that we hear 
Are the great companions' voices that have hallowed 

year on year. 
Shall we know an instant's grieving as we pass? 

Shall we pause a fleeting moment ere we grasp the 

eager hands. 
Take one last long look of wonder at the dimming 

of the lands. 
Love the earth one glowing moment ere we pass from 

its demands. 
Cull all beauty in its essence as we gaze? 

Or with not one backward longing shall we leap the 

last abyss, 
Scale the highest crags glad-hearted, fearful only 

lest the bliss 
Of an earth-remembering instant should delay the 

great sun's kiss — 
Consuming us within the flame? 

Dorothea Lawrence Mann 

lOI 



TO IMAGINATION 

SUGGESTED BY MAXFIELD PARRISH's "aIR CASTLES" 

O BEAUTEOUS boy a-dream, what visions 
sought 

Of pictures magical thy eyes unfold, 
What triumphs of celestial wonders wrought. 

What marvels from a breath of beauty rolled ! 
Skyward and seaward on the clouds are scrolled 

A mystic imagery of castled thought, 
A thousand worlds to lose, — or win and mould, — 

A radiant iridescence swiftly caught 
Of ever-changing glory, fancy- fraught. 

Blue wonder of the sea and luminous sky,, 

A thousand wonders in thy dreamlit face, — 
Eyes that beheld afar the turrets high 

Of Ilium, and the transient mortal grace 
Of Deirdre's sadness, all the conquering race^ 

Of Athens, — eyes that saw Eden*s beauty lie 
In passionate adoration — visions trace 

Across the tender brooding of tlje sigh 
That wrecked a city and made chieftains die. 

Forward not backward turns the mystic shine 
Of those far-seeing orbs that track the gleam — 

The fleecy marvel of the cloud is line 
On line the wizard tracery of a dream. 

O lad, who buildest not of things that seem, 
Beyond what bounds of visioning divine 

Came that far smile, from what long-strayed sun- 
beam 

102 



Caught thou the radiance, from what fostering Jo^ 

vine inatwn 

The power to build and mould the deep design? 

Knowest thou the secret that thy brush would tell, 

Is all the dream a bubbled splendor white, 
Beyond those castles cloud-bound, does there dwell 

The eternal silence of the dark — ^or light? 
Will thy hand hold the pen which shall indict 

The symboled mystery — write the final knell 
Of rainbow fancy — is the distant sight 

A nothingless encircled by the spell 
Of gleaming bubbles wrought of beauty's shell? 

In vain to question, where the mystery 

Of Youth's short golden dream is lord and king. 
The eyes that farthest gaze in ecstasy. 

Were never meant to paint the immortal thing 
They see, nor understand the joy they bring. 

The misty baubles of the sky and sea 
Sail on. Dream still, bright-visioned boy, and fling 

The glittering mantle of thy thoughts that flee, 
Weaving us evermore thy shining pageantry. 

Dorothea Lawrence Mann 



103 



DRAGON 

QfOME saw a dragon eating up the light, 
O Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! 
Some heard a lost bird riding out the night. 
Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! 

But I saw: 

A low dark hill with its twisted back, 
Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack, 
A sprawling flank overlaid with leaf 
Glitter and gleam and shine like steel. 
Crackle and lash like a serpent's tail ! 

And I heard [ 

The wind draw out of the west and wail. 
Dance and stagger and. jig and reel! 
With the long low sound of a life in grief ! 

/ saw a life in grief 

Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! 
Dance and stagger and jig and reel! 

Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! 

Jeannette Marks 
"The Bookman." 



104 



GREEN GOLDEN DOOR 

GREEN golden door, swing in, swing in! 
Fanning the life a man must live, 
Echoes and airs and minstrelsies, 
Love and hope that he called his, ^ 
Fear and hurt and a man's own sin 
Casting them forth and sucking them in. 
Green golden door, swing out, swing out! 

Green golden door, swing in, swing in ! 

Show me the youth that will not di^ 
Tell me the dream that has not waked^ 
Seek me the heart that never ached, 
Speak me the truth men will not doubt! 

Green golden door, swing out, swing out! 

Green golden door, swing in, swing out! 
Long is the wailing of man's breath. 
Short is the wail of death. 

Jeannette Marks 



los 



SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD 

FOUR graves there are upon the wooded crest, 
Each one a shrine to pilgrims ever dear. 
Uncovered, mute, are those who tarry here. 
Romance's dreaming master lies at rest 
Beneath the cedars. Near is one whose breast 
Held Mother Nature's lore. Beyond, the seer 
And sage. There, one who saw her duty clear, 
Her name by little men and women blessed. 

Four friends who walked in Concord's pleasant ways 
Long years ago. They dwelt and worked apart, 

But now the world has crowned them with its bays, 
And holds them close forever to its heart. 

O, sacred hill! There Genius, guarding stays. 
And from its slopes shall never Love depart ! 

John Clair Minot 



io6 



THE SWORD OF ARTHUR 

A CASTLE stands in Yorkshire 
(Oh, the hill is fair and green!) 
And far beneath it lies a cave 
No living man has seen. 

It is the cave enchanted 

(Oh, seek it ere ye die!) 
And there King Arthur and his knights 

In dreamless slumber lie. 

One time a peasant found it 

(Oh, the years have hurried well!) 

It was the day of fate for him. 
And this is what befell: 

Upon a couch of crystal 

(Oh, heart be pure and strong!) 

He saw the King, and, close beside, 
The armored knights athrong. 

And all of them were sleeping 
(Praise God, who sendeth rest!) 

The sleep that comes when strife is done 
And ended every quest. 

Beside the good King Arthur 
(How high is your desire?) 

His sword within its scabbard lay, 
The sword with blade of fire. 

Now had the peasant known it 
(Oh, if we all could know!) 
107 



The He should have drawn that wondrous blade 

^"^'^^^ Before he turned to go. 



Arthur 



If but his hand had touched it 
(The sword still lieth there!) 

He would have felt in every vein 
A lofty purpose thrill. 

If but his hand had drawn it 
(The sword still lieth there!) 

A kingly way he would have walked, 
Wherever he might fare. 

But no ; he fled affrighted 

(Oh, pitiful the cost!) 
And then he knew; but lo! the way 

Into the cave was lost. 

He searched forever after 

(All this was long ago!) 
But nevermore that crystal cave 

His eager eyes could know. 

Pray God ye have the vision 
(Oh, search in every land!) 

To seize the sword that Arthur bore 
When it lies at your hand. 

John Clair Minot 



io8 



THE DIVINE FOREST 

IF there be leaves on the forest floor. 
Dead leaves there are and nothing more. 
If trunks of trees seem sentinels, 
For what their vigil no man tells. 
And if you clasp these guardian trees 
Nothing there is to hurt or please; 
Only the dead roof of the forest drops 
Gently down and never stops 
And roofs you in and roofs you under, 
Mute and away from life's dim thunder ; 
And if there come eternal spring 
It is but more disheartening, 
For Autumn takes the Spring and Summer — 
Autumn that is the latest comer — 
With the Springtime's misty wonder 
And the Summer's yield of gold, 
Weighs you down and weighs you under 
To where the blackened leaves are mold . . . 
The lone gift of the forest is ever new: 
Eternity where dwell not you. 
The forest, accepting, heeds you not; 
Accepting all — you are forgot. 
If there be leaves on the forest floor, 
Dead leaves there are and nothing more. 

Once the forest spoke but now is silent, 
Save in the skyward branches whence no spund 
Seems to touch ear of any man below — 
Or else no longer the man knows how to hear. 
Such men build roofs to keep the forest out 
Yet all their roofs are built of the forest's self; 

109 



"The Only they make the dead tree a shield against the 

^"""^ living. 



Forest 



Such lapsing of the forest then they use 

And turn it into countless lowly dwellings; 

Sometimes they even cut the living down 

To leaven the dead roofs they would erect 

Though some of these low roofs are lovely there 

Beneath the guardianship of forest trees, 

And some yearn upward as with thought of wings. 

Yet the eyes of the dwellers therein are dark 

To the upper forest and they seem 

Fearful of the windy freedom of its top. 

They have forgotten 

That the greatest roof is but a banner 

And that it was a tree that made a Cross. 

Charles R. Murphy 



no 



MAGIC 

TO W. S. B. 

IRAN into the sunset light 
As hard as I could run: 
The treetops bowed in sheer delight 
As if they loved the sun: 
And all the songs of little birds 
Who laughed and cried in silver words 
Were joined as they were one. 

And down the streaming golden sky 

A lark came circling with a cry 

Of wonder-weaving joy: 

And all the arch of heaven rang 

Where meadowlands of dreaming hang 

As when I was a boy. 

And through the ringing solitude 

In pulsing lovely amplitude 

A mist hung in a shroud, 

As though the light of loneliness 

Turned pure delight to holiness, 

And bathed it in a cloud. 

I stripped my laughing body bare 
And plunged into that holy air 
That washed me like a sea, 
And raced against its silver tide 
That stroked my eager glancing side 
And made my spirit free. 

Ill 



Magic Across the limits of the land 

The wind and I swept hand and hand 

Beyond the golden glow. 

We danced across the ocean plain 

Like thrushes singing in the rain 

A song of long ago. 

And on into the silver night 

We strove to win the race with light 

And bring the vision home, 

And bring the wonder home again 

Unto the sleeping eyes of men 

Across the singing foam. 

And down the river of the world 
Our glowing limbs in glory swirled 
As spring within a flower, 
And stars in music of delight 
Streamed gayly down our shoulders white 
Like petals in a shower. 

And tears of awful wonder ran 

Adown my cheeks to hear the clan 

Of beauty chaunting white 

The prayer too deep for living word. 

Or sight of man or winging bird, 

Or music over forest heard 

At falling of the night. 

And dropping slowly as the dew 
On grasses that the winds renew 
In urge of flooding fire, 
And softly as the hushing boughs 
The gentle airs of dawn arouse 
To cradle morning's quire. 

112 



The murmur of the singing leaves Magic 

Around the secret Flame, 

Like mating swallows 'neath the eaves 

In rustling silence came, 

And flowing through the silent air 

Creation fluttered in a prayer 

Descending on a spiral stair, 

And calling me by name. 

It nestled in my dreaming eyes 

Like heaven in a lake, 

And softened hope into surprise 

For very beauty's sake, 

And silence blossomed into morn. 

Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn 

Could scarcely bear to break. 

I sang into the morning light 

As loud as I could sing. 

The treetops bowed in sheer delight 

Before the slanting wing. 

And all the songs of little birds 

Who laughed and cried in silver words 

Adored the Risen Spring. 

Edward J. O'Brien 



113 



MICHAEL PAT 

TO ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH 

OLD Michael Pat he said to me 
He saw an angel in a tree. 
He knew I'd never, never doubt him, 
For what would heaven be without them. 
The angel laughed for very glee 
And sang out loud: *'Heigh! come with mel" 
Old Michael felt a creeping kind 
Of wonder in his humble mind, 
And, hardly knowing what to say, 
Ran where the angel showed the way. 
The lambs were running on the hills, 
Glad laughter echoed from the rills. 
And many hidden little birds 
Talked pleasant things in singing words. 
He followed up a mountain then 
And saw a crowd of singing men 
Approaching to a Crown of Light 
Wherein they took a fresh delight. 
He danced and sang and whooped and crew 
To see the Lord of all he knew 
Surrounded by the living songs 
Of stars and men in countless throngs, 
And then he died to life again. 
And shovelled with the strength of ten. 
He taught me how to say my letters. 
And take my hat off to my betters, 
And when I asked for fairy stories, 
He told me of angelic glories. 
He was a lovely farmer, he 
Had seen an angel in a tree. 

Edward J. O'Brien 
114 



SONG 

FROM "flesh : A GREGORIAN ODE*' 

EBB on with me across the sunset tide 
And float beyond the waters of the world. 
The light of evening slipping from my side. 
Thy softened voice in waves of silence furled. 

Flow on into the flaming morning wine, 
Drowning the land in color. Then on high 

Rise in thy candid innocence and shine 
Like to a poplar straight against the sky. 

Edward J. O'Brien 



"5 



INMEMORIAM: FRANCIS LED WIDGE 
(Killed in action, July 31, 1917) 

SOLDIER and singer of Erin, 
What may I fashion for thee? 
What garland of words or of flowers? 
Singer of sunlight and showers, 
The wind on the lea; 

Of clouds, and the houses of Erin, 

Wee cabins, white on the plain. 
And bright with the colours of even, 
Beauty of earth and of heaven 

Outspread beyond Slane! 

Slane, where the Easter of Patrick 

Flamed on the night of the Gael, 
Guard both the honor and story 
Of him who has died for the glory 
That crowns Innisfail. 

Soldier of right and of freedom, 

I offer thee song and hot tears. 
With Brian, and Red Hugh O'Donnell, 
The chiefs of Tyrone and Tryconnell, 

Live on through the years ! 

NoRREYS Jephson O'Conor 



116 



EVENSONG 

A SHEPHERD piping, herald of the Night 
Who comes with Silence up the coloured vale, 
Treading how gently, clad in greyish white. 
Poignantly piping, sound your reedy wail ! 
For Day departed moves in funeral train 
Tended by Twilight, and, in deepest rose. 
The splendid Sunset melts beneath the main 
While sweet the Sea-wind with cool softness blows. 
As when a mother gathers to her breast 
The child who frets for Day*s remembered smart, 
Now Light fades quickly in the ashen west^ 
And Night-peace falls across my troubled heart. 
Flutes, for the night through let my mind be still, 
And God keep safe with Him my stubborn will! 

NoRREYs Jephson O'Conor 



117 



THE PROPHET 

ALL day long he kept the sheep : — 
Far and early, from the crowd, 
On the hills from steep to steep. 
Where the silence cried aloud; 
And the shadow of the cloud 
Wrapt him in a noonday sleep. 

Where he dipped the water^s cool, 
Filling boyish hands from thence, 

Something breathed across the pool 
Stir of sweet enlightenments; 
And he drank, with thirsty sense, 

Till his heart was brimmed and full. 

Still, the hovering Voice unshed, 

And the Vision unbeheld, 
And the mute sky overhead, 

And his longing, still withheld! 

— Even when the two tears welled. 
Salt, upon that lonely bread. 

Vaguely blessed in the leaves. 
Dim-companioned in the sun, 

Eager mornings, wistful eyes, 
Very hunger drew him on; 
And To-morrow ever shone 

With the glow the sunset weaves. 

Even so, to that young heart, 
Words and hands and Men were dear; 

ii8 



And the stir of lane and mart J^^ . , 

After daylong vigil here. PropM 

Sunset called, and he drew near, 

Still to find his path apart. 

When the Bell, with gentle tongue, 

Called the herd-bells home again, 
Through the purple shades he swung, 

Down the mountain, through the glen; 

Towards the sound of fellow-men, — 
Even from the light that clung. 

Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, 

Came that silent flock of his: 
Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, 

After homing twos and threes; 

With the longing memories 
Of all white things dreamed and vowed. 

Through the fragrances, alone. 

By the sudden-silent brook. 
From the open world unknown. 

To the close of speech and book; 

There to find the foreign look 
In the faces of his own. 

Sharing was beyond his skill; 

Shyly yet, he made essay: 
Sought to dip, and share, and fill 

Heart's-desire, from day to day. 

But their eyes, some foreign way, 
Looked at him; and he was still. 

Last, he reached his arms to sleep, 
Where the Vision waited, dim, 
119 



J^^^. . Still beyond some deep-on-deep. 

Prophet ^^^ ^j^^ darkness folded him, 

Eager heart and weary limb. — 
All day long, he kept the sheep. 

Josephine Preston Peabody 



120 



HARVEST-MOON: 1914 

OVER the twilight field, 
The overflowing field, — 
Over the glimmering, field, 
And bleeding furrows with their sodden yjeld 
Of sheaves that still did writhe. 
After the scythe; 

The teeming field and darkly overstrewu 
With all the garnered fulness of that noon — 
Two looked upon each other. 
One was a Woman men called their mother; 
And one, the Harvest-Moon. 

And one, the Harvest-Moon, 
Who stood, who gazed ^ 

On those unquiet gleanings where they bl^d; 
Till the lone Woman said: 
"But we were crazed . . . 
We should laugh now together, I and you. 
We two. 

You, for your dreaming it was worth 
A star's while to look on and light the Earth; 
And I, forever telling to my mind. 
Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth 
To humankind! 

Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss 
To give the breath to men, 
For men to slay again : 
Lording it over anguish but to give 
My life that men might live 
For this. 

You will be laughing now, remembering 
I called you once Dead World, and barren thing, 

121 



Harvest- Yes, SO we named you then. 



Moon : 
1914 



You, far more wise 
Than to give life to men." 

Over the field, that there 

Gave back the skies 

A scattered upward stare 

From blank white eyes, — 

The furrowed field that lay 

Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune 

Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet §oon^ 

She looked; and went her way — 

The Harvest-Moon. 

Josephine Preston Peabody 



122 



HORSEMAN SPRINGING 
FROM THE DARK: A DREAM 

4 4TTORSEMAN. springing from the dark, 

in Horseman, flying wild and free, 
Tell me what shall be thy road 
Whither speedest far from me?" 

"From the dark into the light, 
From the small unto the great, 

From the valleys dark I ride 
O'er the hills to conquer fate!'* 

'Take me with thee, horseman mine! 

Let me madly ride with thee!" 
As he turned I met his eyes, 

My own soul looked back at me ! 

LiLLA Cabot Perry 



123 



THREE QUATRAINS 

THE CUP 

SHE said, "Lift high the cup '/' 
Of her arm's weariness she gave no sign, 
But, smiling, raised it up 

That none might see or guess it held no wine. 

FORGIVE ME NOt! 

FORGIVE me not! Hate me and I shall know 
Some of Love's fire still burns within your 
breast ! 
Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest, 
On dead volcanoes only lies the snow. 

THE ROSE 

ONE deep red rose I dropped into his grave, 
So small a thing to give so great a friend! 
Yet well he knew it was my heart I gave 
And must fare on without it to the end, 

Ln-LA Cabot Perry 



124 



A VALENTINE, UNSENT 

STAY, flaming rose, 'twould grieve her heart 
To see you fade away, 
Unloved, unwelcome and apart 
From every joy to-day. 

Once long ago your tale was new, 

Days distant yet so dear; 
Why say her lover still is true. 

When that is all her fear? 

Why thus recall another's pain, 

Her tender heart to fret? 
Best let her think he loves again. 

Who never can forget! 

Margaret Perry 



125 



SHIPBUILDERS 

THE German people reared them 
An idol made of wood; 
And Hindenburg before them 
Lifelike and stupid stood. 

To clothe him all in iron 

And thus his soul express, 
With nails and spikes they covered 

His wooden nakedness. 

And when they, thus had clothed him 

All in a suit of mail, 
Still came they, wild-eyed, looking 

For space to drive a nail. 

Whenever Teuton airmen 
Slay boys and girls at play, 

Or U-boats, drowning babies, 
Create a holiday. 

Then, gathering round their statue, 

A happy German throng 
Drive nails into the idol 

To make him still more strong. 

Avenge the babes, shipbuilders, 
That on the seas have died; 

Avenge the little children 
Murdered for Wilhelm^s pride. 
126 



Come, gather at the shipyards, {^^^P- 

A J 1 u. L • builders 

And let your hammers rmg, 

For more than ships and cargoes 

Waits on your fashioning. 

Come, gather at the shipyards; 

With every bolt you drive 
Bethink you 'tis the Kaiser 

Whose brutish head you rive. 

Come, gather at the shipyards, 

And swing with might and main; 
*Tis Tirpitz and the Crown Prince 

That you to-day have slain. 

Come, gather at the ship>^rds, 

And heat the metal hot. 
For it is Bethmann Hollweg 

You*re boiling in the pot. 

Come, gather at the shipyards, — 

And when the day is done. 
You've spent it in driving spikes, 

In Hindenburg the Hun. 

Come, gather at the shipyards, 

And toil with healthy hate, 
For only you can save the world. 

The Hun is at the gate. 

Arthur Stanwood Pier 



127 



UNFADING PICTURES 

("The air from the sea came blowing in again, 
mixed with the perfume of the flowers. . . . The 
old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and pol- 
ished, my aunt's inviolable chair and table by the 
round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget- 
covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two 
canaries, the old china . . . and, wonderfully out of 
keeping with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, 
taking note of everything/' 

—"David Copperfield," Chapter XIII.) 

HOW many are the scenes he limned. 
With artist strokes, clear-cut and free — 
Our Dickens ; time shall not efface 
Their charm, and they will ever grace 
The halls of memory. 

Oft and again we turn to them. 

To contemplate in pleased review; 
And like some picture on the screen 
Comes now to mind a favorite scene 

His master-pencil drew: — 

Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep, 

I see a small lad, spent and worn, 
And by the window, stem and grim, 
A silent figure watching him, 

So dusty, ragged, torn. 

Ah, now she rises from behind 
The round green fan beside her chair; 

128 



"Poor fellow!" croons — and pity lends Unfading 

Her voice new softness — and she bends tctures 

And brushes back his hair. 

Then in his sleep he softly stirs. 

Was that a dream, these murmured words? 
He wakes ! There by the casement sat 
Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat 

And her canary birds. 

The peaceful calm of that quaint room, 

Its marks of comfort everywhere — 
Old china and mahogany 
And blowing in, fresh from the sea, 

The perfume-laden air. 

Poor little pilgrim so bereft, 

So weary at his .journey's end! 
What joy must then have filled his soul 
To reach at last such happy goal — 

To find — oh, such a friend ! . . . 

And then night came, and from his bed 

He saw the sea, moonlit and bright, 
And dreamed there came, to bless her son. 
His mother, with her little one, 

Adown that path of light. 

Ah, greater blessing I'd not crave, 

When my life's pilgrimage is o'er. 
Than such repose, content, and love; 
Some shining path that leads above 

To dear ones gone before! 

LOUELLA C. PoOLE 

129 



WITH WAVES AND WINGS 

WAVES and Wings and Growing Things ! 
As through the gladden sight ye flow 
And flit and glow, 
Ye win me so 
In soul to go, 
I too am waves, I too am wings, 
And kindred motion in me springs. 

With thee I pass, glad growing grass! — 
I climb the air with lissome mien; 

Unsheathing keen 

The vivid sheen 

Of springing green, 
I thrill the crude, exalt the crass 
Fine-flex'd and fluent from Earth's mass. 

And impulse craves with thee. Sea Waves !- 
To make all mutable the floor 

Of Earth's firm shore, 

With flashing pour 

Whose brimming o'er 
Impassion'd motion loves and laves 
And livens sombre slumbering caves. 

Then soaring where the wild birds fare, 
My song would sweep the windy lyre 

Of Heaven's choir. 

Pulsing desire 

For starry fire, 
Abashing chilling vagues of air 
With throbbing of warm breasts that dare! 

Charlotte Porter 
130 



BLUEBERRIES 

UPON the hills of Garlingtown 
Beneath the summer sky, 
In many pleasant pastures 

On sunny slopes and high, 
Their skins abloom with dusty blue, 
Asleep, the berries lie. 

And all the lads of Garlingtown^, 

And all the lasses too, 
Still climb the tranquil hillsides, 

A merry, barefoot crew; 
Still homeward plod with unfilled pails 

And mouths of berry, blue. 

And all the birds of Garlingtown, 

When flocking back to nest. 
Remember well the patches 

Where berries are the best; 
They pick the ripest ones at dawn 

And leave the lads the rest. 

Upon the hills of Garlingtown 

When berry-time was o'er, 
I looked into the sunset. 

And saw an open door, 
And from the hills of Garlingtown 

I went, and came no more. 

Frank Prentice Rand 



m 



NOCTURNE 

NIGHT of infinite power and infinite silence and 
space, 
From you may mortals infer, if ever, the, scope 
divine ! 
The jealous sun conceals all but his arrogant face, 
You bid the Milky Way and a million suns to shine. 

Each star to numberless planets gives light and 
motion and heat, 
But you enmantle them all, the nearest and 
most remote; 
And the lustres of all the suns are but spangles 
under your feet, — 
Mere bubbles and beads of noon, they circle and 
shine and float. 

William Roscoe Thayer 



132 



ENVOI 



I WALKED with poets in my youth, 
Because the world they drew 
Was beautiful and glorious 
Beyond the world I knew. 

The poets are my comrades still. 

But dearer than in youth, 
For now I know that they alone 

Picture the world of truth. 

William Roscoe Thayer 



133 



THERE WHERE THE SEA 

THERE where the sea en wrapt 
A strip of land and wind-swept dune, 
Where nature was quiescent in the glimmering 
Noonday sun of early June,— 
The placid sea lay shimmering 
In a mist of blue, 
From which the sky now drew 
Its wealth of hue and colour; 
One heard but the deep breathing of the ocean, 
As it breathed along the shore in even motion. 
Among the pines and listless of the scene, 
Atthis and Alcseus lay, 
Within the heart of each a hnnger 
For the unknown gift of life. 
Here from day to day 
They met and dreamed away 
The soft unfolding days of spring,^ 
Now turning to the summer. 

AlccBus': 

I am faint with all the fire 

In my blood. 

Arid I would plunge into the quiet blue 

And lose all sense of time and you. 

Atthis: 
I, too, would plunge 
And swim with you! 

Doffing her robe, the maid stood in her beauty, 
Calm and sure and unafraid, 
The sinuous splendour of her limbs, 
A silent symphony of curving line, 

134 



Which reached its final note whlrc 

In breast and rounded throat. The Sea 

He had not known that flesh could be so fair; 

Each movement which she made 

Wove o'er his sense a deeper spell, 

Her beauty swept him like a flame 

And caught him unaware. 

She looked into his eyes, then dropping hers 

Before that burning gaze, 

Softly turned and crept with sunlit shoulders 

Down among the boulders, 

To the sea. 

Secure within its covering depth 

She called to him to follow. 

She led him out along the tide. 

With swift unerring stroke. 

Nor paused till he was at her side. 

With conquering arm 

He seized her and from her brow 

Tossed back the dripping locks, and sought her 

lips — 
Her eyes laughed into his. 
Then closed, — 

As all her body yielded to his kiss. 
Then home he bore her to the shore. 
Within his heart a song of triumph; 
In hers, a new-born joy of womanhood. 
So spring for them passed on to summer. 

Marie Tudor 



135 



MARRIAGE 

YOU, who have given me your nam?. 
And with your laws have made me wife, 
To share your failures and your fame, 
Whose word has made me yours for life. 

What proof have you that you hold me? 

That in reality I*m one 
With you, through all eternity? 

What proof when all is said and done? 

In spite of all the laws you've made, 

I'm free. I am no part of you. 
But wait — the last word is not said; 

You're mine, for I'm myself and you. 

All through my veins there flows your blood. 

In you there is no part of me. 
By virtue of my motherhood 

Through me you live eternally. 

Marie Tudor 



136 



PITY 

OH do not pity me because I gave 
My heart when lovely April with a gust, 
Swept down the singing lanes with a cool wave; 
And do not pity me because 1 thrust 
Aside your love that once burned as a flame. 
I was as thirsty as a windy flower 
That bares its bosom to the summer showet 
And to the unremembered winds that came. 
Pity me most for moments yet to be, 
In the far years, when some day I shall turn 
Toward this strong path up to our little door 
And find it barred to all my ecstasy. 
No sound of your warm voice the winds have borne- 
Only the crying sea upon the shore. 

Harold Vinal 



137 



A ROSE TO THE LIVING 

AROSE to the living is more 
Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead; 
In filling lovers infinite store, 
A rose to the living is more, 
If graciously given before 

The hungering spirit is fled, — 
A rose to the living is more 
Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead. 

Nixon Waterman 



138 



THE STORM 



SHE reached for sunset fires, 
And lived with stars and the sea, 
The mountains for her temple, 
The storm for priest had she. 

Together a libation 
They poured to the God she knew, 
Such wine as ageless heavens 
And lonely wisdom brew. 

Now she has done with worship, 
For her all rites are the same; 
Yet the storm keeps green forever 
The moss upon her name. 

G. O. Warren 



139 



WHERE THEY SLEEP 

THE fog inrolling, dark and still 
Lies deep upon the crowded dead 
As flooding sea upon the sands, 
And quenches starlight overhead. 

Long have they slept. Their separate dust 
Has mingled with a nameless mould. 
Only the slower-crumbling stones 
Still tell so much as may be told. 

And now in shoreless fog adrift 
Like some lone mariner gliding by, 
I lean above the drowning graves 
And wonder when I too shall lie 

W!iere evermore the tides of night 
And earth will hide my lonely rest; 
And Time will bid my love forget 
To read the stone upon my breast. 

G. O. Warren 



140 



BEAUTY 

NOT flesh alone am I, when I can be 
So swiftly caught in Beauty's shimmering 
thread 
Whose slender fibres, woven, held by me, 
With their frail strength my following heart have 
led. 

Yea, not all mortal, not all death my mind, 
When, watching by lone twilight waters' brim 
I tremblingly decipher, as they wind. 
Her deathless hieroglyphs, though strange ajid dim. 

So for this faith, when Thou my dust shalt bring 
To dust, remember well, Great Alchemist, 
Yearly to change my wintry earth to springy 
That I with Beauty still may keep my tryst. 

G. O. Warren 



141 



COMRADES 



W 



HERE are the friends that I knew in my 
Maying, 
In the days of my youth, in the first of my 



roammg ? 



We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went 
straying; 

Now never a heart to my heart comes homing! — 
Where is he now, the dark boy slender 

Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins? 
I love him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender 

Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains. 

Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter, 

Softer than love, in his turbulent charms; 
Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter, 

And gather me up in his boyhood arms; 
Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding, 

Suppled my limbs to the horseman's war; 
Where is he now, for whom my heart's biding, 

Biding, biding — but he rides far! 

O love that passes the love of woman! 

Who that hath felt it shall ever forget, 
When the breath of life with a throb turns human, 

And a lad's heart is to a lad's heart set? 
Ever, forever, lover and rover — 

They shall cling, nor each from other shall part 
Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, 

And life is dust in each faithful heart. 

They are dead, the American grasses under ; 
There is no one now who presses my side; 

142 



By the African chotts I am riding asunder^ Comrades 

And with great joy ride I the last great ride. 

I am fey; I am fein of sudden dying; 
Thousands of miles there is no one near; 

And my heart — all the night it is crying, crying 
In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear. 

Hearts of my music — them dark earth covers; 
Comrades to die, and to die for, were theyj 
In the width of the world there were no such 
rovers — 
Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay ; 
And the highest on earth was the vow that we 

cherished, 
To spur forth from the crowd and come back 

never more, 
And to ride in the track of great souls perished 
Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o'er. 

Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands, ^ 

Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade; 
And one, far faring o'er orient islands 

Whose blood yet glints with my blade's accolade; 
North,, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing, 

Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; 
Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps 
pursuing 

My star where it rises a Star of the Dead. 

George Edward Woodberry 



143 



THE FLIGHT 



OWILD HEART, track the land's perfume, 
Beach-roses and moor-heather! 
All fragrances of herb and bloom 

Fail, out at sea, together. 
O follow where aloft find room 
Lark-song and eagle-feather! 
All ecstasies of throat and plume 
Melt, high on yon blue weather. 

O leave on sky and ocean lost 

The flight creation dareth; 
Take wings of love, that mounts the most: 

Find fame, that furthest fareth! 
Thy flight, albeit amid her host 

Thee^ too, night star-like beareth. 
Flying, thy breast on heaven's coast, 

The infinite outweareth. 

II 

"Dead o'er us roll celestial fires; 

Mute stand Earth's ancient beaches; 
Old thoughts, old instincts, old desire^^ 

The passing hour outreaches; 
The soul creative never tires — 

Evokes, adores, beseeches; 
And that heart most the god inspires. 

Whom most its wildness teaches. 



144 



"For I will course through falling years pr^u 

And stars and cities burning; Flight 

And I will march through dying cheers 

Past empires unreturning; 
Ever the world flame reappears ^ 

Where mankind power is earning, 
The nations' hopes, the people's tears. 

One with the wild heart yearning. 

George Edwaio) Woodberry 



145 



